Unspoken Vows
by HarleQueen21
Summary: Whilst Kitty is reconnecting with old friends in England, Sherlock and Joan are sent undercover as a married couple to infiltrate a human trafficking ring. As the investigation continues, the duo must identify the sinister head of the organisation, who holds the secrets to the whereabouts of dozens of victims. As they do so, their fractured relationship is put to new tests.
1. Do you take this woman?

A/N: Hi everyone :) This is going to be a slightly different fic to the others I have written. I am hoping to write something that works on dealing with the unresolved feelings and angst which is present in the current season, whilst still being completely Sherlock and Joan-esque. I would like to make this an actual casefic as well, and I hope that it will be around 20 chapters long, but I will attempt to make the chapter shorter than I usually do (sorry about that, btw!). Anyway, the premise of this story is something I am still working out, so if there are any issues/concerns please let me know. Your input and advice is greatly appreciated, and I hope you enjoy the chapter :)  
>- HQ21<p>

The rain was lightly drizzling as Joan stepped out of the cab and onto the pavement, hugging her coat to her as she headed straight for the precinct. Her head was bowed slightly against the rain as she walked briskly towards the front door. As she reached for the handle, she found that the door was swung open from the other side. She crossed the threshold and took a few steps into the precinct, running a hand through her slightly damp hair as she turned on the spot to thank the person who had opened the door for her.

"Watson" greeted a familiar voice amiably, nodding once as he leaned back on his heels.

"Sherlock" she returned, tucking some hair behind her ear as she spoke. Although the rain outside was not too hard, her face was covered in a thin sheen of ice-cold water, which she felt certain had compromised her make-up. She was probably staring up at her former partner with panda eyes and a bewildered expression. Before she could thank him for holding the door open for her, he took a couple of steps towards her, removed a handkerchief from his pocket, and held it out to her theatrically, like a small child bringing its parent a humble offering. "Thank you" she returned sincerely, accepting the handkerchief and wiping the water from her cheeks and beneath her eyes. "Did you get the Captain's message too?" she asked, holding the damp and make-up stained handkerchief in her hand as she began to walk towards the Captain's office.

"The one instructing me to come to the precinct immediately to discuss an important case?" he returned in an animated fashion, as he stood a couple of paces behind her and accompanied her to the office.

"That's the one" Joan returned, rapping lightly on the Captain's door. Upon hearing his confident response, Joan pushed the door open and stood to the side, indicating for Sherlock to pass through first. He seemed uncertain at first, sceptical even. But after a moment of watching her with a confused expression, he simply nodded once and walked past her, heading straight into the office and standing before the desk. Joan smiled lightly, before following him into the office and closing the door firmly behind her.

"Captain, how may we be of assistance?" he asked, glancing from the seated Captain Gregson to the standing Detective Bell, who was standing by the Captain's side. Gregson looked up at the consultants, before raising a hand from the file he was holding and indicating to their chairs before him.

"Take a seat" he began, removing his glasses and leaning back in his chair. Sherlock complied, seating himself in one of the chairs before the desk. He heard the gentle clicking of Joan's heels against the floor as she approached, and he used his right foot to tilt her chair to the side, making it easier for her to sit herself down. Joan observed this, his second act of chivalry of the morning, and accepted the chair, as her eyes drifted warily towards him. _Perhaps he's lonely because of Kitty's temporary absence_, she mused.

"Thanks for comin' so quickly" Gregson stated, shuffling two of the files before him.

"Not at all, Captain" Sherlock returned. "Why have we been summoned?" Gregson looked from Sherlock to Joan, breathed in deeply, and passed each of them a file, which they began to open through as he spoke.

"In less than thirty-six hours a man called Douglas Dalton will be arriving in New York for approximately a week. He'll be staying at the Lucia Hotel during this time" Gregson began, pausing for a moment as the consultants nodded in understanding, their heads bowed as they continued to flick through the files. "As the first few pages of your files tell you, Mr Dalton is-"

"-believed to be a leading member of a human trafficking organisation" Joan returned sombrely, as she skimmed through his personnel file.

"Yeah" Gregson returned, his eyes moving from Joan to Sherlock, who had apparently already studied the file, which sat closed upon his lap.

"And you believe Mr Dalton's arrival in the city is with illicit intentions" Sherlock stated. Gregson shifted slightly in his seat, before nodding in agreement as Joan's head rose from the file. 

"It says here that Dalton has been associated with the disappearances of over two hundred girls from Europe and America in the past five years" Joan said in a low tone.

"That we know of" Gregson returned, nodding slightly in her direction as he spoke. "He has been the subject of investigation from multiple agencies, including the FBI and Interpol, but no evidence ever directly connects him with the crimes which we know he has committed. And those able to provide such information often end up dead or missing." Sherlock and Joan nodded in response.

"So what do you believe to be the purpose of his planned visit to the city?" asked Sherlock.

"Within three days of Dalton arriving in the hotel, two other people are expected to arrive" Gregson began, opening a file to his left and placing two pictures before Sherlock and Joan. "Jennifer Mandrea from Colombia and Gregory Vasquez from England. Both of these individuals have been linked to drug smuggling in their countries, and there have been whispers of their association with Dalton."

"You think it's a meeting" Joan stated, causing Gregson to nod slowly towards her in response.

"But why?" she asked, causing them all to look towards him. "Why would a man who is always the scenes, and who never gets his hands dirty, stage a meeting in an up-scale New York hotel with two people whose very presence in this country would attract attention?" she continued, glancing towards Gregson and Bell. "It doesn't make sense." 

"No, it doesn't. But whatever the reason for this meeting, it can't be good. Between them they have racked up quite the body count, and a collaboration between them would almost certainly have fatal consequences" Gregson agreed, glancing from Sherlock to Joan as he spoke. "Interpol believe that there is another man associated with their new allegiance. An American national who is the orchestrator of this meeting. But we don't know who he is or why he has arranged the meeting. All we know is that the parties are flying in in the next few days" Gregson continued. "Which is where you guys come in." Sherlock and Joan looked expectantly towards Gregson, whose expression had altered slightly since he last spoke. Sherlock eyed him quizzically, narrowing his eyes slightly as he clasped his hands tightly in his lap.

"What do you want us to do?" Joan asked amiably. Gregson turned towards her, before glancing briefly at Sherlock, and then focussing his attentions at the space between them both.

"We've got people following them outside of the hotel, wherever they may go" he began, gesturing with his hand as they spoke. "But we need people having eyes on them inside the hotel. You'll keep an eye on the three people we know about, and be on the look-out for the fourth" he continued.

"And those people cannot be the same people following them, as this will arouse suspicion" Sherlock stated simply. "If he notices the same people are around him inside and outside of the hotel, he will almost certainly assume that he is being followed. A man associated with what he does is bound to be paranoid and constantly on guard."

"So you want us to stay at the hotel for the duration of his stay, and keep an eye on them?" Joan asked. Gregson looked at her for a moment, nodding slowly in response, before leaning his clasped hands lightly upon the edge of his desk.

"In order to make yourselves seem... inconspicuous, and below his radar, you need to have a plausible cover story. The reason for you being in that hotel at that time must be beyond reproach and beyond questioning" he continued.

"Of course" Sherlock returned.

"You need to have established yourselves there as soon as possible, which means tonight at the latest" he continued.

"Fine" returned Joan, closing the file and holding it on her lap, as she continued to listen to the Captain.

"And in order to make yourselves as least conspicuous as possible, we have come up with a cover story that will explain your presence in the hotel, and justify the amount of time you'll be spending in each other's company" Gregson continued. Sherlock looked towards him with an analytical glare, as Joan tilted her head to the side slightly as she considered his words. There was something about the way Gregson was talking that had heightened the wariness of both of the consultants. There was more to this than he was letting on.

"And what is that, precisely?" Sherlock asked carefully. Gregson turned towards him and focused his gaze upon the consulting detective, who was watching him with alert eyes and a wary expression.

"We want you guys to pose as a married couple during your stay." He stated simply, his eyes drifting from Sherlock to Joan to gauge their responses.

Joan's eyes widened slightly, and she tilted her head to the side as she pressed herself back into her chair. She was considering the idea, thinking it through from a professional perspective. Such a cover story would allow them to spend a lot of time together without appearing suspicious. It would explain their absences and presence in certain events within the hotel and the city. It would mean that their presence in the hotel would be instantly recognised and understood, without causing much concern or suspicion amongst the newcomers. From an investigative point of view, it made sense. And yet there was something about the idea, the arrangement, that left her feeling deeply unsettled. And as she cast a furtive glance towards Sherlock, she felt certain that he was experiencing the same dilemma. Sherlock was sat straight-backed in his chair, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap as he stared at Captain Gregson across the desk with a blank, unreadable expression. Despite her ability to understand and read him, Joan found herself completely unable to gauge how he was feeling about the suggestion. His expression told her nothing, but there was something in his eyes, which were wide and glassy, that spoke volumes. If only she could hear what they were trying to convey.

"You wish us to pose as a married couple?" he asked in a low, even tone.

"Newlyweds, actually" interceded Bell, dropping a hotel flier before him. Sherlock glanced down at it for a moment, scanning it briefly, before looking back towards Bell. "The Lucia is well-known for its Honeymoon suites and marriage-related packages. They offer city-tours, wine-tasting events, restaurant parties and intimate dinners-"

"You are joking" Sherlock stated incredulously, staring hard at Bell, before turning his glance towards Gregson, who was looking at him with a deadpan expression. "My god, you're not" Sherlock breathed.

"Posing as a married couple will make you inconspicuous" began Gregson in a low, respectful tone. "It will instantly put you under the radar of these guys, meaning that your cover and your safety is secure. It will explain your constant presence together, your movements around the hotel, and the space you'll share" he began, sensing Joan and Sherlock's eyes weighing heavily upon him.

"The honeymoon suites are big enough for you guys to set up base so you can set up your investigative base and do your thing" Bell started, causing the consultants to shift their attention towards him. "Not the thing _they'll_ think you're doing, but-"

"Yes, enough, Detective" Sherlock spat, his eyes half closed and his hand partially risen as he chided Detective Bell. A brief silence befell the room, which Sherlock used calm himself as he considered the reasoning of the Captain and Gregson which, although he would never admit to them, was fairly sound. "Watson" Sherlock stated, his voice much more relaxed and respectful than it had been. "Your thoughts?" Joan turned towards Sherlock and watched him warily for a moment, her gaze meeting his and then falling away instantly.

"It's a plausible cover story" she returned simply. "It would certainly put us below the radar and allow us to work with minimal suspicion" she continued reflectively, before once more allowing her eyes to meet his. "What do you think?" she asked simply. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes running across her body analytically to search for any signs of discomfort or unease.

"Are you asking me to marry you, Watson?" he asked lightly after a few moments of silence, before adopting a more serious tone as he continued. "It would not be an easy task, there is much we would need to discuss and consider."

"You both lived together for almost two years, you know stuff about each other that no one else does, and your work as partners is always top-notch" Gregson began, leaning on the desk as he spoke. "You guys won't have any trouble posing as a married couple, trust me."

"You certainly argue like one" Bell added gently, in an unsuccessful attempt to lighten the mood. Neither Sherlock nor Joan acknowledged his comment, but were continuing to watch each other with unreadable expressions as they pondered the words of the Captain and of each other. Before either of them could speak, the sound of a manilla folder striking the desk brought their attention back towards the Captain. The folder was open on the desk, and from it spilled out the images of dozens of young women, all in their late teens and early twenties.

"Who are they?" Joan asked gently, drawing more and more images from the seemingly bottomless file with her fingertips.

"These are some of the girls whose disappearances have been linked to Dalton and his organisation" Gregson said simply, his voice low and respectful. "These images are from Interpol, the FBI, MI6 and other intelligence agencies" he continued, as Sherlock and Joan's attention was completely upon the faces of the women in the file, which they continued to explore. "And these are only the disappearances from the last year." Joan froze for a moment, and her fingers lingered upon the file as she looked up to Gregson will a solemn expression. Gregson acknowledged her look before glancing towards Sherlock, whose expression had changed marginally.

Sherlock looked up from the images in the folder and turned to Joan, who was watching him with a concerned and wary expression. He continued to stare at her for a moment, before a confident nod from her gave him the answer he was looking for, and he turned instantly from her and towards Captain Gregson.

"Very well, Captain" he said in a low, even tone. "Miss Watson and I will comply with your request" he added, standing immediately from his seat. Joan shifted in her seat and eased on her coat, before reaching down and picking up her bag. As she stood, Captain Gregson picked up another two files as he walked past the desk, handing each of them a small manilla folder.

"This is all the information we have on the people involved" he stated simply, as Joan placed the folder in her bag. "Your aliases, identification papers and other information are also included" he stated simply. Sherlock nodded towards him in acknowledgement, as he tucked his own folder into his jacket, which he zipped up.

"Your wedding bands are in there too" added Bell, pointing towards Sherlock's file. Joan looked towards Sherlock, who was staring at Bell with a remonstrative look. Before he could issue a cutting remark or witty response, Gregson continued to speak.

"You'll both need to go to your residences, study the files, pack" he began, glancing from Sherlock to Joan as he spoke. "You'll be picked up in two hours and driven straight to the hotel" he continued. "Any problems, any issues, you call me right away. Got it?"

"Of course, thank you" Joan responded after a few seconds, when it became clear that Sherlock would not. Joan stood still on the spot for a moment, watching as Sherlock's glance travelled from Bell to Gregson. "Sherlock" Joan called gently, causing him to turn immediately towards her. Without a word, he moved from around his chair and walked briskly towards the door, which he held open for Joan, moving to the side to allow her to pass through. As she walked through the door, Sherlock cast a final look back at Gregson and Bell, before closing the door firmly behind him.

"Was that really necessary?" Gregson sighed at Bell, as he walked back around his desk and took up his seat. "All your little comments, your digs?"

"Probably not" Bell conceded, turning towards the Captain as he spoke. "But if memory serves, the idea for them to go undercover as a married couple was all your idea." Gregson put his glasses back on and began to tuck the images of the missing women back into the file, before leaning back in his chair and tidying the rest of the manilla folders which lay scattered across his desk.

"From a professional point of view-"

"It was the right move" Bell stated, putting one hand out defensively as he spoke. "Don't get me wrong, you're right. It is the best way to infiltrate that hotel whilst keeping them both safe" he continued, watching as the Captain nodded once in acknowledgement. "But that's not the only reason you did it, is it?" Gregson paused for a moment, shuffling the files together and placing them neatly upon the desk. He removed his glasses and placed them on top of the file, before sighing lightly and sitting back in his chair.

"There are a lot of unresolved issues, regrets and disappointments floating between them" Gregson began. "And if they don't deal with it soon, it's gonna eat them up."

"So that's why you were so keen to have them go undercover as a married couple?" he asked incredulously. "So they could work stuff about between them?"

"Partly, yeah" Gregson sighed, mild annoyance entering his tone at Bell's apparent disdain for his idea. "They've been through a lot recently, over the past year or so. Especially Watson."

"They seem alright to me" Bell stated, considering how polite and courteous Sherlock had been towards his former partner in the previous meeting. Gregson leaned back in his chair and titled his head up to face Bell.

"They're not" he said simply, before turning his head back towards his desk. "But after spending some time together, just the two of them, working together under the same roof" he continued, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "Perhaps they will be."


	2. Lawfully Wedded Wife

A/N: Hey everyone :) Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter yesterday was one of those days. Thank you so much for having supported the story so far your feedback has been really helpful and incredibly encouraging :) As always, any issues/comments/suggestions are greatly appreciated. I hope you enjoy this chapter!  
>Best wishes,<p>

HQ21

As soon as Joan stepped out of the office and into the bustling precinct she found the reality of the task she had just willingly consented to being a part of hit her with an almost physical force. She had gone undercover with Sherlock a few times, but only ever very briefly, posing as potential clients for a prostitute or as America's leading security expert. And this was not counting the amount of times that Sherlock had introduced her as a valet, body guard or something on those lines. Each time they met a prospective client or suspicious witness, she found her mind racing with possibilities of how he would introduce her this time. And he always surprised her. Always. Every single time. But this was different, very different. Not only would she be undercover for a longer period of time than ever before, but Sherlock would be too. His identity and her identity needed to be bound together, forged in so strong and so convincing a manner as not to arouse suspicion. As she walked slowly through the precinct and towards the exit, she found herself wondering whether she was capable of keeping up the facade for at least a week. But before she even got halfway across the room, she began to question whether she could even_ begin_ the task in the first place.

"Watson" Sherlock called, causing Joan to pause and turn back to the Captain's office. Sherlock's hand drifted from the handle of the door to his side, and he walked briskly towards her, in his usual straight-backed and confident manner. His eyes drifted from her face to the ground, before rising again to meet hers as he reached her side. He was standing just before her, his bespoke suit clinging tightly to his taut body, revealing his heaving chest as he inhaled deeply. "We should talk about this, before... before we go." Joan looked up at him with an unreadable expression, watching him closely as she considered her own thoughts.

"Talk about what, exactly?" she asked, her attention completely upon him. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, before narrowing in confusion as he leaned back on his heels, his hand still resting in the depths of his pockets.

"We have gone from living together for two years to being separated for almost one, living independently but still working together after that brief period apart, and now we are married" he state, explaining the complex situation in a casual manner. "You don't think it fairly essential that we discuss this?"

"What? Our reconciliation after months apart?" she asked, her eyebrows raising slightly. "Perhaps I was too much of a romantic terrorist to commit" she stated wryly, her eyes adopting a mischievous expression. "Maybe my hunger for more than one partner was due to my over-sexed and over-inflated-"

"Yes, Watson" Sherlock stated dismissively. "Very good" he stated, raising one hand and nodding as he spoke. "That was not what I meant" he continued, shifting slightly on the spot as he considered the phrasing of his next statement. "After we discussed the... your-"

"Similarities to sexually-promiscuous primates?"

"Your nature in relation to romantic endeavours" Sherlock corrected, his eyes raising slightly as he spoke. "We discussed how your unconventional nature makes conventional relationships difficult for you to maintain." Sherlock was silent for a moment, before allowing his gaze to drift over to Joan, who was watching him with a wary expression. 

"If I remember correctly, it was less of a discussion, and more of a declaration" she stated. "And certainly not on my part."

"You disagree?" he asked simply.

"What?"

"Do you disagree with my assessment?" Joan sighed, shifting slightly on the spot as she stated to the left, before returning her gaze to him. "In the conversation we had afterwards, you agreed with some aspects of what I had stated-" 

"What's your point?" she interceded, her voice low and weary. Sherlock watched her for a moment, scanning her features to see whether he had caused her discomfort or offence. He did not think that he had, but he could not tell. He rarely could with Joan Watson.

"My point is that, regardless of our intellectual and investigative capabilities" he began, over-pronouncing the words and nodding as he spoke them. "There are limits to what we are able to accomplish, or to fake. It is not in our natures to be married, Watson. And regardless of our conflicting opinions on relationships and on love" he stated, pronouncing the last word in the same manner a disbeliever would say 'alien', "the thing that is similar about our natures, the common-ground we share, is that single, indisputable fact" he continued, watching as Joan stared at him intently as he spoke. "Marriage is incompatible with us both." Joan's eyes remained upon his for a moment, before drifting away as she tilted her head to the side, inhaling deeply before she turned back towards him.

"It's just a task, Sherlock. Part of an investigation. We've worked together before and we've been undercover before, together and separately" she began, speaking factually as she attempted to convince them both. "It's like Gregson said, we lived together for two years, we know each other's habits and preferences enough to fake the" she paused for a moment, her shoulders rising and falling as she searched for the words, "the intimacy that is required to successfully pose as a married couple. For a week, at least" she stated, looking up towards Sherlock to gauge his response. He was watching her with an attentive expression, and nodded once as she finished her last statement, encouraging her to continue. "We work well together, and we overcame the issues we faced when we were living together" she continued, before raising her eyes and gesturing with one hand. "Eventually". She placed one hand on her bag as she tilted her head upwards to face him. "If we were able to live together, comfortably, for almost two years, we can feign that kind of relationship for a week."

"Very well" he stated, his voice low as his gaze drifted to the side, as though he were attempting to process what she had said. As Joan watched him curiously, she felt certain that he wished to say more, but was preventing himself from doing so, which was odd for him. Sherlock Holmes was not the kind of person to show verbal restraint. Before she could address this issue, Sherlock nodded, his face cleansing itself of his previous expression as he looked up to face her. "We should do as the Captain suggests, and use the time until we are collected by one of these procedure-bound drones to pack and study the files" he stated simply, walking past her and towards the exit before Joan even had a chance to reprimand him for referring to the police in such a derogatory manner. She sighed, rolling her eyes and clutching her bag to her side, as she turned on the spot and left the precinct. She entered a taxi moments after Sherlock's own had departed, and their vehicles headed for separate ends of the city, with each of them flicking through the file in the back seat.

Joan pushed open the door to her apartment and dropped her bag on the kitchen counter, removing the file first before shrugging off her coat and throwing it over a chair. She removed her scarf from her neck and draped it over the chair in front of the tv, before heading straight to her room, kicking off her heels as she entered. Joan switched on the light and opened her wardrobe, removing her sleek black suitcase and a matching carry on bag, which she placed on the bed, as she began pulling clothes from the wardrobe and her drawers and neatly folding them into the case. She packed quickly and efficiently, moving between the rooms of her apartment as she packed her clothing, shoes, bathroom supplies, laptop and other necessary gadgets. She zipped up the case and the carry on before placing them on the floor at the foot of her bed, and pulling out the file she was given at the police station and skimming through it. Her alias was Clara Taylor, and Sherlock's was Henry Taylor. She smiled slightly, as she pictured his face and attempted to associate the new name with him. After several moments of consideration she found herself unable to figure out if it fit or not, and resolved to ponder the issue further once she saw him again.

After skimming through the documents relating to their identities, she found that she was to pose as a lawyer who specialised in human rights, whilst Sherlock would also be a lawyer, but one who specialised in cases regarding the first amendment. She smiled once more at this, and found herself imagining nothing more appropriate for him. Although she was still uncertain on the name, _that_ certainly fit. As she skimmed the rest of the information on their identities, she found herself grateful that Gregson had not chosen to have Sherlock pose as a banker. There was little doubt in her mind that the nature of their new identities was Gregson's doing. Joan spent the remaining hour reading the file in relation to the individuals who they would be monitoring, as well as the limited information they had on the mysterious American, most of which was speculative or unconfirmed. All that the intelligence agencies had been able to agree upon was that the individual was male and had access to considerable funds. _Great_, she thought, closing the file and tucking it into her carry case, before changing her outfit and re-doing her hair and make-up, which had been ruined by the rain. Joan wore a black pencil case with a white blouse, which she matched with a tight-fitting black blazer and court shoes. As she checked over her outfit in the mirror, she heard her phone buzzing lightly against her bedsheets. She crossed the room quickly, picking up the phone and reading the message. 'Outside. TYT. SH'. Joan frowned slightly at the message, staring at the letters 'TYT' with confusion, before putting on her black coat and carrying her bag and cases to the elevator.

The elevator pinged as she reached the ground floor, Joan's heels clicked across the polished ground as the sound of the wheels of her suitcase created an almost soothing beat that she walked to, as her nervousness at the task before them rose within her. As she reached the door which led from her apartment block and onto the street, she found herself faced with the tall figure of Sherlock, who was holding the door open for her once more. Before she could react, she felt his hand gently tug her suitcase from her grasp, before freeing her of her carry-case too, both of which he carried to the waiting black Bentley, without saying a word.

"Deja vu" Joan mumbled as she watched him from the top step. As Sherlock placed the cases into the boot of the car alongside his own, Joan descended the stairs and walked towards the vehicle. "What does TYT mean?" she called, as he pushed the top of the boot down, pressing his hands on it to confirm that it was secure, before turning to face her.

"Take your time" he stated simply, removing his hands from the car as he walked around it and joined Joan. For the first time since he had arrived at her apartment, Sherlock faced Joan directly, his eyes meeting hers beneath the amber street lights. "I didn't know how long you required to study the files in as much depth as you would like" he explained, tugging the car door open as he spoke. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah" she responded, taking a step towards the car. "Thanks Henry" she stated casually, as she eased herself into the back seat. Joan smiled slightly to herself as Sherlock closed the door firmly behind her, before walking back around the car and taking up the seat on the other side. As she turned towards him, she noticed the brown leather travel-case that was in the seat between them. The case was facing away from her, and the zips at the top were parted by about eight inches. She did not recognise the case, and narrowed her eyes as she ran her eyes over it briefly. It must be Sherlock's, but why was it here, and not in the back with the rest of the cases? Joan's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's door slamming as he leaned back into his seat, as the engine began. "What's with the case?" she asked, looking towards him as he clicked his seatbelt into place. As the car gently cruised down the street, Sherlock turned to Joan with a look of mild confusion.

"It's a travel case, Watson" he stated simply. "If your deductive skills are that weak at this early stage, my hopes for the rest of our investigation are radically declining by the moment." Joan chastised him with her eyes, before looking from the case to his face.

"The rest of the cases are in the back, I saw part of yours when you were loading mine" she replied in an even tone. "So why is this one in the back with us? There isn't much room as it is, and-"

"Is it in your way?" Sherlock asked.

"No" Joan replied. "No, it's fine" she continued, her voice gentler. She was not criticising Sherlock, she was simply curious. "I just don't understand why-"

"-is our first marital argument really going to be about the positioning of my luggage in the car on the way to our honeymoon suite?" Sherlock asked, pronouncing the final two words with notable scepticism, as he turned from her and placed his hand into his pocket. "If so, it does not reflect favourably on the future of our union, does it? Which rather confirms my previous statements regarding the institution of marriage, and our inability to partake in it" he continued, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, glancing down, and then passing something across to her. Joan looked down into his hand, and stared at its contents. It was an engagement ring and a wedding band. She took them wordlessly, her fingertips colliding with his palm as she accepted them, turning to the front of the car as she put them on. As she turned back towards Sherlock, she found that he was already wearing his.

"Best we do it now, before we leave the car" he stated simply. "If we were seen placing the rings on before entering the hotel, our cover would be blown before we even checked in" he stated, turning back towards her as he spoke. "Which would not be the best start of our investigation."

"No" agreed Joan, running her hand over the rings, which felt strange upon her finger. "No, it wouldn't." Joan leaned back in her seat and stared forward for a few moments, as she considered the surreal nature of their current journey. Even though the file Gregson had showed them on the missing women had been a sobering experience, she still found the task that she and Sherlock were about to undertake to be incredibly strange. It did not feel unnatural or unpleasant, and she was not averse to it. As she had explained earlier, it was a case. They were working on a case, and this was simply a means to further their enquiries and achieve their final goals. Nothing more. "Did you read the file?" Joan asked, turning towards Sherlock expectantly as she spoke. Sherlock turned instantly towards her, and they spent the next ten minutes discussing the case, until their car pulled up outside the hotel.

Before either of them could speak, their doors were opened from the outside, and two hotel employees dressed in tailored deep-green suits stood by the doors, the one near Joan extending his hand to her. Sherlock and Joan stepped out of the car and met on the pavement, as the two hotel employees moved to the back of the car and removed their luggage from the boot. Sherlock was holding the brown carry case in his left hand, and used his right to indicate towards the hotel.

"After you, my dear Clara" he stated, in a manner which was almost sincere. Joan nodded, adjusting her hold on her bag as she walked forwards, leading Sherlock and the valets into the hotel.

As she stepped through the doors, Joan cast a cursory glance across the foyer as she headed straight for the main desk. The hotel was beautiful, with the interior being white stone, which stood out alongside the marble floor. There was a staircase at the back right, a set of elevators on the adjourning wall, and several regal portraits hanging upon the walls. A crystal chandelier reflected light throughout the room, which danced upon the entrance to the restaurant and bar area to the right. Joan ran her eyes across the dozen or so other guests and employees as she made her way to the desk, offering the young woman behind it a polite smile as she reached it. Before Joan could speak, she felt a hand placed on the middle of her back, which fell a few inches lower, before pulling her gently to his side. It was Sherlock.

"Good evening" Sherlock greeted amiably, turning towards Joan and smiling down upon her. Despite her initial shock at the unannounced and unforeseen physical contact, Joan reacted to the situation remarkably, returning Sherlock's smile and allowing herself to relax against his shoulder. "Mr and Mrs Taylor from California" he stated simply. The young woman behind the desk nodded, typing on her computer briefly, before turning back towards Sherlock and Joan.

"Welcome, Mr and Mrs Taylor" she returned brightly, before reaching down and picking up a white envelope and two key cards, which she handed to Sherlock. "The Honeymoon Suite is on the tenth floor, and has been prepared for your arrival. If there are any problems, please ring down to the desk, and we will deal with them immediately."

"Thank you" Joan replied, giving the woman an appreciative look. "I'm sure everything is fine." The young woman returned her smile and nodded.

"Thomas and Ryan will assist you to your room, please let them know if there is anything you require immediately" she began, glancing from Joan to Sherlock. "The restaurant and bar are open and available to you if you wish to dine."

"Thank you" returned Sherlock. "We will be down shortly. Right after we've got settled."

"Of course" she returned, gesturing to the two men who she had just identified as Thomas and Ryan, who carried Sherlock and Joan's cases towards an elevator. Sherlock thanked the woman once more, before gently leading Joan towards the elevators, his hand still placed lightly on her back. The brief journey up was passed in relative silence, save for a few questions Sherlock asked Thomas and Ryan about the hotel's facilities. He feigned interest at their responses, nodding and appearing genuinely interested as they replied. As the elevator pinged at their floor the two men left first, carrying the cases to room 153, the honeymoon suite. Thomas opened the door and held it open for Sherlock and Joan, who passed through swiftly, closely followed by Ryan. As the two men placed their belongings by the wall near the door, Joan took a few steps into the room and glanced around it.

The room was decorated in a similar fashion to the foyer, but the furniture and layout gave the room a warm and homely feel. To the left was a sitting area, with a couch and two armchairs arranged around a fairly sizeable table. The couch was white and the table was a deep-brown shade with a glass centre, and the mantle-piece on the wall opposite was adorned with candles and silver ornaments. There was a false fire burning brightly beneath it, the artificial orange flames adding to the pleasant ambience. The couch was adorned with some patterned cushions, which matched the colours and style of the rest of the room. Straight ahead of them were some tall windows which boasted a spectacular view of the city. To the far left was the entrance to a second sitting room which was the same as the first, but with a large television screen. To the right was a large and rather extravagant bedroom, decorated in matching colours and styles, with soft-looking cream sheets and a collection of vintage cushions. The bathroom was to the right of the bed, which stood majestically in the centre of the room. Joan stared across the room, and was in awe.

"Thank you, gentleman" Sherlock stated, tipping both men generously as he held the door open for them. "My wife and I are delighted. Have a pleasant evening." With that the content men departed, and Joan was roused from her thoughts by the sound of the door shutting firmly behind them. After a few seconds of silence, Sherlock spoke once more.

"Forgive me, Watson" he stated in a genuine and respectful manner, adjusting his hold on the handle of his leather carry case, as Joan turned on the spot to face him. "I did not wish to make you feel uncomfortable. I was simply attempting to maintain the illusion that-"

"It's fine, Sherlock" she returned simply, watching as his features relaxed slightly. "It's part of the task at hand. You don't have to apologise" she assured him, as she stared at him with conviction in an attempt to reassure him. "And you didn't make me uncomfortable" she added. "If I can handle you setting trip wires in our home to test my defensive skills, I can handle you placing your hand on my back" she continued, her expression warming as she spoke.

"Good" Sherlock returned, nodding once, before walking briskly through the room and towards the sitting area. Joan watched as he placed the bag gently down upon the table, sitting on the couch before it as he turned it around slowly, and bent over it. Joan narrowed her eyes in confusion as she watched him, before walking slowly towards the couch and standing by his side. After asking him about the bag before, Sherlock had avoided answering her questions. But the fact that he was now slowly unzipping the bag and leaning over it meant that further questions from her were unnecessary. Joan watched as Sherlock's hands delved into the bag and withdrew a familiar item. Joan's eyes widened as she caught sight of it, and she walked alongside the couch and to Sherlock's side, sitting beside him on the couch as he drew the item in his hands close to him, shielding the moving creature as it took a step over his hand.

"You bought Clyde?" Joan asked, her attention completely upon the moving creature. Sherlock nodded, adjusting his hold on their companion as Joan watched his curious movements. "Do they allow pets in this hotel?"

"They seem to have no qualms about allowing a parasitic misogynist who forces young, defenceless women into the sex trade to be a guest at their hotel, so I cannot imagine there would be much of an issue with a turtle" Sherlock stated simply, his eyes not leaving Clyde as he spoke. Joan watched him for a moment, and noted how his features darkened slightly, and his eyes wore a sad and pensive expression.

"We'll find him" Joan stated gently, watching as Sherlock adjusted his hold on Clyde, before placing him on the seat between them, which he began to tentatively explore. "We'll investigate the three men, who will lead us to the fourth. Once we have that information, even if that is all the information we are able to get, we can continue to work on this case and find out how their organisation works, which may lead us to the truth about the girls" Joan continued, waiting patiently as Sherlock absorbed her words. Sherlock's chest rose as he breathed in, and his features softened slightly, as he tilted his head as he watched Clyde stumble towards Joan.

"You're curious as to why I brought Clyde" Sherlock began, his voice low and reflective. "The reason is quite simple" he continued, watching as Joan placed one hand beneath Clyde, which he slowly climbed on to. "We work together, you and I. Our collaborative methods began and improved whilst we were under the same roof, together, in the brownstone. Amongst the books, screens and walls of information" he continued, watching as Joan placed her free hand across Clyde protectively, and hold him closer to her, as he turned his head slowly and nervously from side to side. "The brownstone is the place which fostered our initial relationship, and allowed it to develop into what it is today. The work we did in the brownstone, personally and professionally, has been profound. The brownstone has been a hub of inspiration in all aspects of our lives. It has prompted and fostered our progression, especially in the cases we undertake together. But this time, we have been banished from the safety and inspiration of those walls" he added reflectively.

"So you think our chances of solving this are greater because this room has something the brownstone has?" Joan asked. "You bought Clyde as, what, the embodiment of the brownstone?"

"Partly, yes" Sherlock returned, continuing to watch Clyde walk gently across Joan's hands. "But I believe that our chances at solving the case are greater because of the presence of something not in the brownstone" he continued, looking up as he sensed Sherlock looking towards him. "You" he stated, watching as she looked up at him with a curious expression. "As was the case when we lived together, as well as in recent weeks, the most breakthroughs we have made, the progress that we have achieved, has been made whilst we our collaborative efforts have been cultivated in the brownstone" he explained. Joan watched Sherlock for a moment, holding Clyde protectively in her hands, as she ran her fingers gently across his shell. "Plus I couldn't fit the apiary in the carry-case" he added simply, his tone becoming lighter. After a few moments Sherlock rose from his seat, glancing back towards the cases by the door.

"I'm going to set up a security system within the rooms. I had Alfredo send me some software and equipment, I will not be long" he stated, drumming his fingers on his thigh before walking towards the door, picking up one of his cases, and taking it into the second sitting room. Joan watched him disappear into the room, focusing her attention on the doorway for a few moments, before returning to Clyde, who was attempting to escape. She adjusted her hold on him, before placing him in her lap, and watching as he poked his head out curiously from his shell as he glanced around the room. Joan continued to watch him for several moments, as the sounds of wires and televisions permeated the silence. Joan plucked her file from her bag, flipping through to the section on the three individuals who would be arriving within the next few days. She removed her laptop from her bag and set it up on the table, before placing it beside her on the couch. She spent the next half an hour researching the individuals they would be investigating, as Clyde's gentle footsteps traced patterns across her legs. As she stared at the glare of the screen before her, clutching the manilla folder as Clyde walked across her, and the sound of television and static could be heard from the next room, Joan found herself reminded of that sacred space that she once shared with him. Her fingers lingered over the keys of her laptop, and Clyde stilled in her lap, as she continued to process his argument about their partnership and the brownstone. A few minutes later, Joan's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sound of a hollow rapping on the room's front door.


	3. To Have

*A/N: Hey everyone :) Thank you for your support, I hope you are enjoying the story so far! I'm sorry if the characters seem a bit OOC, I was hoping to first convey the existing tension between them, which they will deal with during this case. Sherlock's defensive nature and Joan's residual anger are present within the season, and I hoped to convey them in this story, which is tricky, as I do not often write angst/anger between them! So if there are any issues/inconsistencies, please let me know and I will do my best to correct it.

I hope you enjoy the latest chapter, and thank you for your comments and viewings!

Happy reading,  
>-HQ21<p>

As Joan turned her head towards the rapping on the door, she heard Sherlock's footsteps walking briskly from the room behind her and towards the door. Sherlock had removed his jacket and wore black trousers and a bespoke white shirt, which her eyes were drawn to as he walked quickly past her, looking through the peep-hole before taking a step back and opening the door.

"Thomas, isn't it?" Sherlock asked pleasantly, his fingers drumming lightly as he opened the door and indicating for Thomas to enter. "Please."

Joan eased herself off the couch as Thomas entered, reaching down for Clyde and placing him back into his travel case, before rubbing her hands down her skirt and walking towards Sherlock and Thomas. The hotel employee was holding his clasped hands before him, his head slightly low as he looked towards the golden buttons on his emblazoned deep green uniform. As soon as Sherlock closed the door Joan was standing before Thomas, and considering him with interest. Thomas rose his head and faced Joan with a confident and appraising stare, nodding politely towards her as he did so. Before either could speak, Sherlock walked across the room and towards Joan, speaking as he did so.

"Thank you for coming so promptly, detective" Sherlock began genially, standing close to Joan as he spoke. Joan's eyes narrowed in confusion, and she turned from Thomas to Sherlock, and then back to the tall young man before her.

"Detective?" she asked.

"Yes, Watson" Sherlock responded, turning towards her as he spoke, before returning his attention to Thomas. "The file said that we were to have a handler, so to speak, for the duration of our stay. It made sense that that individual would be someone who we could approach at our leisure, someone whose constant presence in the hotel and with us would not rouse suspicion. Also, someone with access to other guests and their rooms, possibly even their luggage, would be advantageous." Joan nodded, turning back towards Sherlock.

"How did you know it was him?" she asked, missing the smile that began to form on the younger man's face. Sherlock's eyes fell to the man's face briefly, before returning to Joan, and speaking in a calm and concise manner.

"As well as the above requirements, our handler would likely attempt to contact us as quickly as possible after our arrival" Sherlock began, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "When we entered the foyer, Thomas here was in the bar. Upon seeing us, he quickly placed the glasses he was carrying on the table of the patrons, before crossing the floor quickly and heading towards Ryan, who seemed surprised to see him. Also, the young lady behind the desk stumbled over his name slightly as she spoke it, as though she were expecting someone else to be assisting Ryan with our luggage" he stated, placing his hands behind his back as he turned back towards Thomas, whose eyebrows were raised slightly as he watched Sherlock. Sherlock sighed slightly, shifting on the spot in a restless manner, before continuing to speak. "The fact that Thomas left a note in one of my bags revealing himself and providing proof of his identity and credentials was also a-" 

Sherlock's statement was cut off by a scoff from Joan, who turned towards him with quizzical eyes and a light-hearted expression. Sherlock attempted to continue speaking, but the look on her face prevented him from doing so. Sherlock and Joan stared at each other for a few moments, oblivious to the look they were being given by Detective Thomas Reinhardt. Joan rolled her eyes and gave Sherlock a warm expression in an attempt to soothe his bruised ego, before turning towards the detective and offering him her hand, which he shook politely.

"It's nice to meet you" she began, before adding "properly, I mean."

"And you, ma'am" Thomas returned, nodding towards her before looking towards Sherlock. "Sir".

"Detective" Sherlock responded, nodding as he spoke. "I had not expected to see you quite so soon" he continued, as Thomas turned from Joan to him. "Is something the matter?" Thomas watched Sherlock for a moment, considering the tall and eccentric man before him. They'd never met before, but his reputation was known throughout the city, as were his mannerisms and habits. He was clearly a smart man, and very perceptive. He just hoped that he was as good as people said he was.

"The subject, Mr Douglas Dalton, was not expected to arrive until later tomorrow evening, checking in at approximately nine-thirty at night after arriving in the city an hour earlier" Thomas began, as the consulting detectives watched him with interest and nodded as he spoke. "But our contacts at Interpol have just reported that he has boarded the red-eye and will be arriving much earlier than planned. He'll land in New York at about seven-thirty, so will probably be checking in in the morning."

"Unless he has business in the city" Joan stated. "He may be having a meeting in the city before checking in."

"Possibly" Sherlock returned. "But it is also possible that the information fed to Interpol about Mr Dalton's late-evening arrival was a rouse, in order to see if he was being followed. Alternatively, Dalton's nature is cautious bordering on paranoid, so I do not think it a stretch that he would arrange to arrive earlier than anticipated to avoid being followed."

"You're right" Joan agreed. "We need to be prepared for either possibility. We can't afford to assume." Sherlock looked towards her, meeting her glance and nodding in agreement.

"If he arrives in the city at seven thirty, the earliest he could check in will be at about eight o'clock. And that is assuming there are no issues with his luggage and that traffic is at an unprecedented minimum" Sherlock stated, turning back towards Thomas as he spoke. "Miss Watson and I will be downstairs for breakfast at quarter-to-eight tomorrow morning. The front desk can be viewed clearly from the restaurant. Could you please book us a table nearest to the foyer so that our view will be as unobstructed as possible?"

"Yes, sir" Thomas returned, nodding as he spoke, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a card. "These are my contact details, if there is anything you're worried about, want me to look into or wish to be reported back to Captain Gregson, and you feel unable to tell it to me in person, call me. The cell phone is disposable and will be on me at all times."

"Thank you" replied Joan kindly as Sherlock accepted the card, nodding towards Thomas as he did so. Sherlock glanced at the card for a moment as he memorised the number, before passing it to Joan, who studied it for a few moments before tearing it into pieces. Thomas nodded, before glancing around the rooms and returning his gaze to Sherlock and Joan.

"Do you have any towels or unnecessary items in this room?" he asked, as his eyes continued to survey the contents of the rooms that were visible to him. "Although the chances of you both being monitored now are low, we must play it safe. I didn't want to come up here with items to give you to excuse our formal introduction, as it could seem suspicious..."

"...but if you leave with some items of ours, this meeting will seem much more natural" Joan added, before walking towards the mini-bar which was located next to the room which had occupied Sherlock's attentions before Thomas's arrival. Sherlock tilted his head to watch her as she bent down and removed several items from the fridge, kicking it shut as she walked back towards them, handing Thomas a couple of bottles of champagne. "My husband is allergic" she stated simply. Sherlock's lip curled into a small and very temporary smile as Thomas accepted the bottles, holding them to his chest as he glanced from one curious consultant to the other. _Maybe the rumours about them are true_ he pondered, his features becoming professional and almost impassive as they turned back to face him.

"Sure, thanks" he stated. "Is there anything you want to ask me, anything you need?" Sherlock turned towards Joan, whose eyes met his. She shook her head and Sherlock turned back towards Thomas.

"I think we have all we require for the moment, thank you" he stated in a low and amiable tone. "If you will be so kind as to excuse us, Miss Watson and I must dress for dinner" he added, turning towards Joan, whose head snapped in his direction.

"Sure" Thomas returned, adjusting his hold on the bottles as he headed towards the door. Sherlock turned from Joan and walked ahead of Thomas, holding the door open for him as he left. Sherlock shut the door slowly, listening to the series of gentle clicks as it closed firmly, before turning back to face Joan.

"You want to go to dinner?" she asked in a gentle but sceptical manner, causing Sherlock to pause and look towards her with a confused expression. "You don't think we should unpack, study the files, research the three people who will be here in the next couple of days?" Sherlock's confused expression disappeared slightly, and he nodded in acknowledgement of her statement.

"An excellent idea, Watson" he stated kindly. "But I feel that establishing and maintaining our cover must take precedence. For the moment, at least" he began, as Joan narrowed her eyes in confusion. "We have studied the files, we have looked into the individuals. Granted, there is more work to be done and a great more detail to be examined. But for the moment, we need to work on establishing our cover, as well as ourselves, in this hotel. According to the pamphlet that the helpful receptionist gave us with our key cards, the restaurant will begin serving dinner in forty-five minutes. This means that an influx of employees and fellow guests will be in that large room. Mingling amongst these people would be advantageous for two reasons. Firstly, it will allow us to establish our cover amongst guests and employees. Secondly, it will allow us to consider the possibility that one or more of these individuals may be working for or with Dalton and his crew." Joan considered his words for a moment, her eyes lowering slightly. What he was saying was logical and made perfect sense, and she agreed whole-heartedly. But his words revealed a possibility which she had not truly considered until now. 

"You think the American, the leader of the organisation, is already here?" She asked. Sherlock returned her curious glance with an even expression, his shoulders rising and falling in response.

"We cannot be certain" he began. "But it is a possibility. And the best way to investigate it is to inject ourselves into the social atmosphere of this establishment" he stated, gesturing with his hands near his chest as he spoke. Joan nodded in response, placing one hand on her hip as she looked up towards him.

"You're right" she responded gently. "We can delve into the files when we get back from dinner. We have plenty of time."

"Yes" Sherlock responded, nodding as he spoke. "Providing, of course, that you are willing to attend?" he added, rushing the words out quickly as he gestured towards her with his hand.

"Of course I am" she responded, her tone gentle, almost reassuring. She was about to ask what would cause him to suspect otherwise, but the content and relaxed expression which appeared upon his features caused her to rethink her question. Did he really think she would not want to have dinner with him? _Why?_ She thought, before the sound of his voice drew her from her thoughts.

"Very well" he began. "I will get ready in the room next door, which can serve as a base for our investigation, as well as my bedroom. The actual bedroom is fully available to you for-"

"What? No" Joan began gently, stepping towards him as she spoke. "You can't sleep in there, take the bed, it's fine. I can manage on the couch."

"Absolutely not, Watson" Sherlock returned instantly, sounding almost surprised. "The bedroom is yours, I insist. The room next door has a large couch and 24-7 access to the files and laptops which I will be using to keep an eye on the hotel. I will set up cameras outside our room and in the main area, excluding the more private areas, of course" he added quickly, after noticing Joan's eyes widen slightly. "I assure you, Watson, I will be quite comfortable in the other room. Besides, I do not plan on sleeping for much of our stay here." Joan sighed, knowing that his mind would not be changed on the subject.

"Fine. Thank you" she replied warmly. "But if you need to sleep then just go ahead and-"

"I'll be fine, Watson, thank you" Sherlock returned, his eyes meeting hers for a moment before looking away nervously. "We should get ready for this evening" he stated simply, walking past her and towards the room which he had been working in. Joan watched as he disappeared into the room, lingering on the spot for a few moments as she played with the small pieces of torn paper in her hand, which had become a single clump. She then allowed her attention to fall to the bedroom, where she spent several moments studying the incredible comfortable and beautifully adorned bed before her, as guilt at the thought of Sherlock resting (for she was certain that he would at least power nap) on the couch in the next room filled her. Her guilt was not assisted by her noticing that her bags were already neatly arranged at the bottom of the bed. Her expression softened and she smiled slightly, before walking past the bed and into the bathroom, dropping the paper into the toilet and flushing it, before readying herself for the evening.

Joan wore a fitted red dress with a low neckline and matching heels, which she combined with a silver clutch and matching accessories. Her hair was tousled and arranged neatly down her shoulders, the dark ebony shade of her tresses highlighted by her red lipstick. As she refreshed her make-up in the bathroom mirror, she found herself struck once more by the reality of the situation. She was here, in a hotel room, with Sherlock. Joan lowered her lipstick and placed it by the sink, before looking into the mirror and thinking this point over. She had adjusted to the fact that they would be sharing a space again whilst working on the case. She understood that their cover story was both plausible and logical, and she did not doubt that they would be able to work together to ensure that it was maintained, regardless of the unresolved issues which they were experiencing. But despite this, she still felt uneasy. Not because of the task at hand, or even because she was living in such close proximity to him again, closer than she had ever done before. As Joan stared at her reflection in the mirror, she found herself identifying the issue that was causing her concern and discomfort. It was not Sherlock as an individual, but Sherlock's current responses and remarks which caused her concern. In the precinct, and in the car ride on the way over to the hotel, he had occasionally appeared slightly blunt when they had spoken. He also used every available opportunity to condemn marriage, a subject which she had made a conscious attempt to avoid. But now that their well-being, and the progression of their case, depended on them creating and maintaining the 'elaborate rouse', as Sherlock had once referred to it, she realised just what it was that was causing him to act so differently: he was trapped. A man who disliked marriage with passion had, technically, just been forced into forming the union with his former partner, with whom there was still much to be addressed and discussed. Joan closed her eyes in self-frustration as she considered this point. Sherlock often shut himself down when faced with a situation he felt unable to deal with. And sometimes, his frustration at the situation and his inability to handle it caused him to become blunt and irritable. _More so than usual, at _least, Joan reasoned. With that thought, Joan put the cap on her lipstick and placed it into her silver clutch bag, which she held tightly in her hand as she walked through the bedroom, living area and towards the half-open door of the room Sherlock was in.

Joan reached a hand up to the door, rapping gently upon it as she called "Sherlock" into the dimly-lit room. As she pushed the door open and stepped inside, she found herself faced with four screens, three of which were blank, all up against the back wall. There was a smaller version of the living area couch to the far left, and a matching table against the opposite wall. As Joan glanced around the room at Sherlock's rearrangements, her partner walked slowly towards her, pulling his dinner jacket from the sofa and tugging it on.

"Watson" he breathed, doing up the buttons on his jacket, before placing his black tie across his neck. "You look quite lovely" he stated kindly, his eyes remaining on hers as he fiddled with his tie. Joan's expression softened and she smiled slightly, but it was not enough to conceal her nervousness, which the perceptive Sherlock picked up on almost immediately. "Are you quite alright?" he asked gently, his eyes drifting from her face to his tie, which he was struggling with. Joan smiled once more, before taking a step closer to him and reaching up towards the tie. Her fingers brushed lightly against his, which stilled instantly, hovering in the air for a moment before falling to his side. Sherlock stood up taller, his head back slightly as Joan helped him with his tie, speaking to him as she worked.

"I was going to ask you the same thing" she stated simply, her tone low and gentle, as she rose her gaze from his tie to his eyes. Sherlock did not respond to her statement, but Joan was certain that she noticed a change in his breathing pattern as she continued to work on his tie. Joan allowed the silence to continue for the few seconds it took her to fix his tie, the gentle buzzing of the single on-screen providing the background ambience to the room. Joan fixed his tie, adjusted its angle, and then allowed her hands to fall from him.

"And why is that?" he asked in a low, gentle tone. The room was dim and cool, and his voice resonated off the walls, making his words seemingly echo into the darkness. Joan returned her eyes to his and breathed in deeply.

"We had no idea, did we?" she began, watching as Sherlock tilted his head slightly as he listened to her. "When we went to see Gregson. We didn't know that, a few hours after that meeting, we'd be here. Like this." She continued, pausing briefly to allow Sherlock to process her words.

"It was quite an ambush" he conceded gently, his expression remaining calm and seemingly comfortable. "But I believe that we are making progress" he stated, nodding as he spoke.

"Yes" she returned. "We know the main details of the case, we have met our handler, and we are about to begin developing our cover story" she continued, her eyes lowering and then rising once more to Sherlock's face. "But that doesn't make this easy, does it?" she added gently. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, and he shifted marginally on the spot.

"What?" he asked gently.

"This" she stated, indicating across the room with her hand. "You" she added, gesturing towards him. Sherlock's expression continued to be a mixture of confusion and uncertainty, and he breathed in deeply as he watched her with unblinking eyes, waiting patiently for her to continue. "I know how you feel about marriage. You've made your thoughts on it, as well as the impossibility of it being something which either of us can partake in, very clear" she began, watching as Sherlock's expression softened slightly, and his eyes registered his agreement. Joan swallowed slightly, before breathing in quickly and preparing herself for her next statement. "I also know that since you've come back, things between us have been" she paused for a moment, her glance falling to the folded handkerchief in Sherlock's pocket, "complicated" she added after a few moments. "I know that pretending to be married must be difficult enough for you. But having to create that rouse with me must be even more-"

"No, Watson" Sherlock interceded, his voice stopping Joan in her tracks. She breathed in and shifted her position as she watched him, his eyes softening as he prepared himself to address her. "You are right on my feelings on marriage and on the archaic and outdated marital state" he began. "But let me assure you, you are quite wrong about yourself" he continued, pausing for a moment as Joan's eyebrows fell in confusion. "It is true that I despise the married state. But in this instance, possibly on the only instance, it has a purpose" he added lightly, causing Joan's features to soften and her to relax visibly. "Watson, if I am to be forced into this state for the progression of case which, if solved, could reveal the fates of dozens of missing and exploited young women, then feigning that type of a relationship is a price I am willing to pay" he added, speaking simply yet succinctly and nodding as he spoke. "And out of all of the difficulties associated with this case, including the role of marriage within our cover stories, the one thing that I do not find difficult is the prospect of being united with you" he said in a gentle and sincere manner. "Although, perhaps _reunited_ would be a better term" he added. "You know my thoughts on marriage, Watson, but you also know my thoughts on partnership" he stated, nodding as he spoke. "And there is no one in the world I would rather be partners with." Joan watched Sherlock with a patient expression, nodding as he finished speaking.

"Thanks, Sherlock" she began gently. "That means a lot" she added, readjusting her hold on her clutch bag as she spoke. "But this is something that is going to be hard. For both of us" she continued, watching as Sherlock nodded once in agreement. "Which is why I think it's important that we communicate. If issues arise, tell me. And I'll do the same."

"Very well, Watson" he returned, turning towards the couch and picking up his phone and wallet, which he placed into his pocket. "But the only issue arising presently is the one of dinner." Joan smiled lightly at this, nodding in agreement and turning on the spot, and walking past the living room. As she reached for the front door, she felt the familiar sensation of her black jacket against her skin. She turned her head to the side and found her chin brushing lightly against Sherlock's fingertips, as he draped her jacket across her shoulders, before reaching past her and opening the door. As he did so, Joan felt his side brush past hers, as he held the door open for her. She walked through slowly, adjusting the jacket across her shoulders as she did so. A moment later, the door clicked shut behind her, and she felt the familiar sensation of Sherlock's hand upon her lower back, as he guided her towards the elevator. As the elevator pinged and the doors slowly opened, Sherlock's hand fell from Joan's back, as she stepped in first and pressed the necessary button. They were alone in the elevator, which pinged once more before closing the doors and beginning its descent.

"It's a pity Clyde cannot join us" Sherlock stated reflectively, staring up at the ceiling as his hands were clasped behind his back. "I'm sure he would have appreciated the five-hundred dollar salads" Sherlock quipped.

"I'm sure that he would" Joan added, opening her clutch bag and rearranging the items within it so that it closed easier, before looking up towards Sherlock. "Five hundred dollars?" she asked sceptically. Sherlock shifted slightly on the spot before glancing down towards her.

"Possibly not five hundred, no" he responded. "Shame really" he added reflectively, leaning against the back of the elevator and placing one hand casually in his pocket as he spoke. "The NYPD are footing the bill, so we could have ordered several." Joan smiled slightly, as she imagined the expression on Gregson's face as he read the invoice from the hotel.

"We can always order a couple and take them up to our room" she added pleasantly. "Clyde could test them out and give us his verdict whilst we work on the files" she stated, as the elevator stopped for a moment, before continuing its descent. "Unless you mean that you would rather dine with Clyde than myself" she added. "Although I can't say that would keep you under the radar." Sherlock turned towards Joan and watched her with wide and warm eyes, before turning back towards the doors of the elevators.

"You needn't be so negative about the potential of your own company, Watson" Sherlock stated kindly, as the elevator pinged and the doors slowly opened. "As I told you before, you are a much more interesting person than you give yourself credit for" he stated warmly, meeting her gaze and holding it for a moment. Joan looked up at him with a grateful but somewhat surprised expression, before taking a step closer to him and walking towards the restaurant with Sherlock, whose hand found its way to her lower back once more.


	4. To Hold

Sherlock and Joan walked through the foyer and towards the restaurant, which was arranged in a similar manner to the rest of the hotel. The room was large and extravagant, with a marble floor and ornate tables and chairs, covered in expensive tablecloths and adorned with calla lilies and burning candles, which released a sweet vanilla essence which scented the whole room. The room had tables arranged in a symmetrical pattern, making the most of the available space whilst retaining some measure of privacy. A large bar and heated area where food was placed was across the wall at the opposite end of the room, and before the windows to the far left sat a pianist and a harpist, who played enchanting music as the hotel's patrons began to enter the restaurant. Out of the twenty or so tables that were in the room, only five were occupied. As Sherlock led Joan further into the room, the scent of freshly cooked bread and a spicy vegetable dish swam in the air, drawing them both further into the room. Before they could study the room further, a hotel employee they did not recognised approached them, taking their name and room number before leading them towards their table, which was in the centre of the room.

Sherlock's hand remained on Joan's lower back as he guided her towards their table, drawing out her chair for her before the waiter even had a chance. Joan smiled politely, before giving the waiter an appreciative and apologetic look, as she eased herself into the seat and smoothed down her dress.

"Thank you so much" Sherlock said politely to the waiter, as he placed their menus before them on the table and took their drinks order. Joan rose her eyes from behind her menu as she observed Sherlock's kind and courteous behaviour. His usual brash and abrasive nature had apparently dissipated. For the evening, at least. Joan knew how difficult it was for him to 'extend his niceness' to others, and could see that he was making a real effort, which was highly commendable. It was also incredibly reassuring. They had not dined together in a public place in months, and as she thought of this, she found herself remembering the previous occasions they had dined together. Sherlock's brusque responses to the waiters, his unimpressed glares, his (often unintentional) offensive remarks to staff, all made public dining experiences with Sherlock a worrying event for Joan, who had actually begun to count the number of apologies she had to issue to staff or fellow guests. Her record was thirteen.

"So" Sherlock began, opening the menu and scanning its contents briefly, before lifting his eyes above the top of it and gazing towards Joan. "What do you think?" Joan looked up from her menu and met his gaze with uncertain eyes.

"Of the menu?"

"Of the location" he returned, closing the menu and placing it on the table. Joan did the same, lightly running her fingertips across the thick material of the tablecloth. _It probably has a higher thread count than all my bedding combined_ she mused, before looking up at her partner as he continued to speak. "Our table lies in the very heart of the room, providing us with excellent surveillance potential, does it not?"

"I suppose it does" she mumbled, leaning back slightly and glancing curiously around the room at their fellow diners. Two of the tables were occupied by men she presumed were bankers, judging by their dress, briefcases and the frequent looks of disdain which Sherlock flashed towards them. Sherlock's looks of disdain were proving to be a semi-permanent fixture during this particular dinner, as he frequently cast a pained glare in the direction of the pianist, who he frequently informed Watson was 'murdering the greatest composers in history with his clumsy and half-witted hands'.

Another table was occupied by a well-dressed middle-aged couple and their obnoxious-looking teenage son, who was staring at the waitresses in a manner than made Joan feel quite uncomfortable. The table to the left was occupied by three women dressed in expensive clothing and laden with several bags from various designed boutiques. The final occupied table, besides their own of course, was hosting what appeared to be a double date between two couples who, judging from their body language and the similarity in appearance in both wives, were related by marriage. However, apparently unbeknownst to this couple, one of the sisters was having an affair with her brother in law, if the frequent rubbing of his leg with her foot beneath the table was anything to go by. And judging from the ten minute conversation which passed between Sherlock and Joan on the subject, it was.

"I thought you'd be pleased" Joan began, as the waiter brought them their second round of drinks. Sherlock's attention had been focused n staring daggers at the novice pianist, whose inadequacies were causing him a small degree of physical discomfort, and so had taken a moment to process her words. Joan picked up her glass and placed it lightly to her lips, before removing it and continuing to speak as she took notice of Sherlock's bewildered expression. "Two people having an affair which betrays both marriage and family" she explained simply, drawing the glass close to her lips once more. "It certainly gives weight to your arguments regarding marriage" she continued, a hint of sadness entering her voice as she took a few tentative sips of her non-alcoholic cocktail.

"Not at all" Sherlock returned sincerely, as he turned his glass in a half-circle upon the table. "I take no pleasure in watching a man being unfaithful to his wife, and even less so in seeing a woman betraying her sister" he continued, before wrapping his fingers across his glass and lifting it from the table. "My views, whilst sceptical but highly logical, are not heartless."

"I know" Joan replied instantly. "I do, I... I never meant to imply that they were-"

"Calm yourself, Watson" he breathed lightly over his glass, in such a manner that it was impossible for anyone else to hear him use her real name. "I am perfectly certain that you never meant to imply that. Usually when I say something to cause offence, you tell me, you don't hint at it" he continued, watching as Joan's eyebrows rose slightly as she listened. "I find it quite refreshing, your honesty. Your ability to be candid with me even in the most uncomfortable or socially-awkward instances." 

"Hmm" she sighed, picking up her glass and raising it to her lips. "That must be why you married me" she added in a low almost mumbled tone, as she took a sip and placed the glass back upon the table, running her fingers lightly up the stem. Sherlock looked up at her with wide eyes and a mildly remonstrative expression, before taking another sip of his own drink.

"I suppose it may have been a contributing factor" he stated dismissively, leaning back in his seat as he spoke. "Speaking of which, it has not gone unnoticed that you have not been checking your phone periodically for texts or calls from Andrew" he began. "Am I to assume that you told him of your week-long stay in a hotel with your former partner?" Joan's small smile and mischievous smile fell instantly and her features tightened slightly. Sherlock felt his hands become clammy as a pang of guilt seared through his body, tightening his chest.

"Actually, Andrew and I-" she began, staring at her glass as she turned it around upon the table. "Andrew and I are no longer seeing each other" she stated simply, raising her eyes to meet Sherlock's. She was mildly surprised to find that he was watching her with an expression of both confusion and condolence. _I'm surprised he hadn't deduced it by now_ she thought as she watched his expression relax before her. _I guess his mind has been elsewhere_.

"I apologise, Watson" he stated kindly. "Andrew was a... a more than capable individual who I know you-"

"Could we not-" Joan began awkwardly, leaning forward in her chair slightly. "I just-" she began, meeting his eyes with her own, in an attempt to assure him that she was fine. "I don't want to discuss my boyfriend with my husband" she added, smiling slightly as she spoke, before reaching for her glass. "Ex-boyfriend" she corrected as she drew the glass to her lips.

"Of course" Sherlock added kindly, watching her as she took a few sips. It was clear to Sherlock that Joan was attempting to put on a brave face, and she was being moderately successful. But there was something in her eyes, a melancholy look of sadness, which could not be removed by a false smile or witty comment. He recognised the look well. As Joan lowered her glass and placed it upon the table, two waiters approached with hot dishes, which they placed before Sherlock and Joan. Sherlock's eyes did not even befall the steaming plate before him. Instead, his attentions were fixed completely on Joan, who had turned towards the waiters and was thanking them both gratefully, whilst presenting them with an appreciative smile. Until this moment, it had never actually occurred to Sherlock just how difficult this case would be for her. Although he disliked marriage with a passion, and could act the part of a new husband with a combination of ability and mocking, Joan could not. From their few conversations on the subject, she had revealed herself as a believer in marriage. And so, to be sat opposite him now, posing as his wife ten months after he abandoned her and fled to London, he could not even begin to imagine how difficult the task must be for her. As the waiters nodded towards them and departed, Joan picked up her cutlery and hovered over the plate for a moment, before she looked up towards Sherlock, who was watching her with an indecipherable expression. Sherlock knew that she would not allow him to discuss the matter with her, and he did not wish her to feel any discomfort. He felt absolutely certain that the best thing he could do, the thing that she would most appreciate, would be a change of conversation. Which, judging by the way he was struggling to handle the painful sounds coming from the fingers of the inept pianist, would not be an unreasonable request.

"It's fine, Sherlock, really" she soothed, punctuating her declaration with a small smile as she began to cut into her vegetable lasagne, before looking up towards her partner. Sherlock sat perfectly still, his back straight and his hands clasped in his lap, as he stared towards the pianist once more. After a few moments of contemplation, Joan decided that his pose reminded her very much of a meerkat. This conclusion pleased her, and smiled as she placed the first piece of lasagne to her lips. It was exquisite. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked, after noticing that Sherlock was not eating. He did not respond to her immediately, and she leaned back slightly as she lowered her cutlery, before calling to him once more. "Sherl-"

"Sorry" Sherlock stated, glancing towards her before turning back towards the pianist. "I'm sorry, it's just, it's the music, I-"

"The music is fine" Joan stated with confusion, as Sherlock's chest rose and fell with his deep breathing. To her the music did sound perfectly fine. But to someone as musically aware and talented as Sherlock, a man who noticed even the smallest mistake or inconsistency, it was an entirely different matter. After a few moments had passed, in which Sherlock had looked from the pianist and towards his food, Joan could see visible signs of his agitation. Sherlock sat up straight in his seat, picking up his cutlery and holding it in mid-air, before another incorrectly played note drew his attention back to the pianist. Joan leaned forward slightly, her hands clasped upon the napkin in her lap, as she whispered across the table to him. "Sherlock-"

"I can't Watson, I'm sorry" he replied, removing his napkin from his lap and dropping it upon the table as he rose from his seat. "It's Beethoven" he added, as though the words explained it all. Before Joan could react, Sherlock had stood up and from his chair and was stalking across the dining room and towards the pianist. _Oh God_ she thought, wiping her hands on her napkin as she pushed her seat back slightly and prepared to save the doomed pianist. _Please don't hit him_. As she watched her partner reach the side of the pianist, who he greeted with a handshake and a friendly expression, she found her fears abating.

"May I?" Sherlock smiled, gesturing towards the piano with his left hand as he leaned towards the seated pianist, who looked from him to the piano in confusion, before nodding repeated and moving from the instrument. "Thank you so much" he stated, warmly shaking the man's hand once more, before moving the seat out slightly and preparing to sit upon it. "It's for my wife, you understand" he added by way of explanation. With this, the former pianist seemed to relax visibly, nodding in understanding as he smiled down at Sherlock, who was sat on the stool and edging closer to the piano. Joan watched the scene before her with a mixture of bewilderment and anticipation. Although they were supposed to create and maintain their cover as married guests within the hotel, which would involve them socialising with fellow guests and taking part in various activities on offer, this was something else. She did not wish so much attention to be drawn to them, and she had no idea what Sherlock was planning. As she tucked herself back under the table and attempted to act as nonchalant and inconspicuous as possible, the sound of Sherlock running his finger from the far-left piano key to the far-right one broke the silence of the room, causing herself and several other guests to turn towards Sherlock in interest. _Oh God_ she thought, watching the scene before her as she took another sip of her drink, which she now wished contained vodka.

As Joan closed her eyes and took another sip of her (regrettably) non-alcohol cocktail, a beautiful melody filled the air, causing sounds so wonderful and so entrancing to swim in the air that all the guests turned immediately towards Sherlock, who was playing the baby grand like a concert pianist. Joan did not recognise the piece he was playing, which she was certain she would have if she had heard it before, but she was not surprised that she had not. The piece was like nothing she had heard before, or would hear since, she imagined. As she found herself completely engaged and focused upon the notes which resonated off the walls of the room, the chatter in the room ceased, and the sound of cutlery being dropped or placed on plates and dishes could be heard throughout the room. For the next six minutes or so, a time which felt like an eternity, the entire room stared in awe at the back of Sherlock Holmes, who was leaning over the piano and playing the most enchanting melody any of them had ever heard. The tune made Joan's hair stand on end and her heart race. She found her eyes closing in perfect peace at the song, which she hoped would never end. But as she opened her eyes a few moments later, she was sad to find that it had. Sherlock was sitting straight-backed in the seat, pressing his hands upon the sides as he eased himself into a standing position, before turning around so he was facing the tables. At this point several of the guests stood, including the reprehensible bankers and philandering wife, who broke into a rapturous applause. Sherlock walked through the sea of admiration and headed straight back to his seat, causing the guests to turn towards him and continue their applause, until he was seated opposite Joan once more. As soon as he took up his previously discarded seat Sherlock reached across the table for Joan's hand, running his fingers gently upon her palm and clasping her hand in the centre of the table. Joan's eyes widened slightly, and she stared at him with a look somewhere between fear and warning. Sherlock's expression softened, and he rose her hand into the air, running his thumb gently down the side of her hand.

"They're watching" he mumbled, as he tilted his head to the side slightly and met her gaze. "I'd say our cover has been well and truly secured" he continued, as he drew her hand slowly to his lips. "Wouldn't you?" he breathed against her hand, as he placed a gentle kiss upon it. The kiss lasted less than a moment, but the feeling of Sherlock's soft lips and warm breath upon her would last infinitely longer.

"I would" she breathed, as Sherlock lowered their hands upon the table, and rose his head to meet his gaze. Joan turned towards the clapping guests, whose applause was lessening with the return of the former pianist. As their hands reached the centre of the table, Joan gently removed hers from his, placing her clasped hands in her lap as Sherlock turned towards the pianist and groaned in displeasure. Before he could utter words of frustration or condemnation, the elderly man began to play one of Sherlock's favourite pieces by Mozart, with such precision and delicacy that Sherlock found himself amazed. Sherlock's attention was completely upon the pianist, which was in an attempt to consider his work, and to stop himself thinking of how cool and empty his hand now felt. Sherlock pursed his lips together as he watched the pianist with eager attention, like a lion would watch a gazelle rushing across a desolate space in a last bid for freedom. As he pressed his lips together in concentration, Sherlock recalled the kiss he had rather brazenly and without warning placed chastely upon Joan's hand. He could taste the bees-wax product she used on her hands, which caused his senses to go into overdrive and his eyes to widen. "They're still staring" Joan whispered into her glass, causing Sherlock to turn towards her, his eyes travelling slowly to her face.

"I'm sorry?" he asked in a low tone.

"The other guests" she continued, taking a sip of her drink as she indicated towards the other diners with raised eyebrows. "They keep turning around and looking at us, at you" she stated, as Sherlock removed his eyes from her and glanced across the room. "I guess they're hoping for an encore" she stated lightly, smiling lightly as she placed her glass upon the table.

"Then by all means" he returned, turning his head back to face her. "Let us give them something to watch" he stated, pushing himself back in his seat once more.

"Wait. What?" Joan asked in confusion, removing her hand from her glass and turning towards Sherlock with a bewildered expression, as he stood from his seat and walked towards her. He paused just inches before her, his body so close that she felt his knee brush against her thigh, as he held out his hand towards her. "May I have this dance, Clara?" he asked, his voice slightly louder.

Joan looked up towards him and instantly observed the mischievous sparkle in his eye. Even though they were on a case, and the people whose belief in their lie was essential were staring at them in wonder, he was still testing her, seeing if she would play the game with him. She doubted that he wanted to dance, certainly not with her. But the opportunity to place her in a position where she had to act immediately, on her feet, and in a situation which she had not foreseen, was not something that he would pass up. She mused that he would later pass it off as a test of her skills and abilities, a homage to their previous partnership. Whatever the reason, the stakes were high, and the viewers were plenty. With this thought, Joan nodded slightly, ad her face broke into a wide smile as she placed her hand in his and he guided her to her feet.

"I'll remember this" she warned through her smile, rising her eyes to meet his as he led her across the restaurant, past the tables and towards the small dancing space near the piano.

"I hope so" he returned impishly, a small smile playing on his lips. Sherlock turned Joan's hand in his, indicating for her to face him, before placing his hand delicately upon her waist and pulling her close to him. The surprise and unfamiliarity of the contact caused Joan to inhale sharply, her back arching slightly as he held her close. She recovered herself quickly, pressing herself lightly against his chest as she relaxed into him, and they moved rhythmically around the dance floor.

The music continued to play as Sherlock and Joan travelled across the room, their eyes not leaving each other's, as the room became alive with the sound of applause and whispers. The words 'just married' and 'honeymoon' were repeated a couple of times, and drifted to the ears of the consultants as they danced. After a few minutes of dancing, Sherlock and Joan were joined by two or three other couples, including the cheating husband and his oblivious wife.

"Well done" Joan conceded as Sherlock held her firmly by the waist and dipped her towards the ground, before drawing her quickly back to his chest in a manner which left her breathless. She could feel Sherlock's hand drift lightly down her back and rest upon her firmly as she leaned into his neck. "Was this part of the plan to establish our cover?" she whispered into his ear, as they moved together across the floor.

"Yes" he lied, as they continued to sway lightly to the music. In truth, it had not. Although Sherlock believed that making a conscious attempt to remain unnoticed was an excellent way to have attention drawn to you, he had not intended to invite Joan to dance. But upon seeing the light in her eyes, the flush to her cheeks and the softening of her features as he walked towards her after playing the piano, a rendition of a piece he composed himself the night that Joan was returned safely to the brownstone following her kidnapping ordeal, he found himself considering a potential release for her concerns and her sadness. Music would not act as a cure for her, he understood that. But it was a start. The piece he played for the room surprised him too, as he had never heard it aloud. He wrote the piece onto paper, playing the melody in his mind but never in life. But as he ran over the notes in his mind, it was exactly what he had expected it would be. And he was grateful to have observed that it seemed to please Watson, too.

"Henry" Joan whispered, causing Sherlock to blink himself from his thoughts at the use of his cover name. "Henry" she repeated, leaning backwards as she spoke. Sherlock loosened his hold on her to enable her to move backwards, before looking down upon her with a patient and reflective expression. "The music has stopped" she explained, her eyes warm and her features relaxed.

"So it has" he returned, stilling his body as he stood tall before her. "Shall we?" he continued, indicating towards their table. Joan nodded in assent, walking next to him as they made their way back to the table, to a chorus of low yet genuine applause which lingered in their wake.

As they reached the table, Joan pushed her chair in slightly, before removing some of the salad form her plate and wrapping it up in a napkin, which she tucked into the clutch bag. Sherlock watched her as she did this, taking a final sip of his drink before walking around the table and towards Joan's chair. He reached across and removed her jacket from the back of the chair, running his fingers gently over the soft fabric before draping it across her shoulders. Joan stood up straighter than before, inclining her head to the right and giving Sherlock an appreciative look as she shrugged herself into the jacket. Sherlock moved to her side and placed his hand in its familiar place on her lower back, walking with her from the room and through the foyer.

Sherlock and Joan had been so engaged in their actions that night, that they had both failed to notice the tall figure lurking in the shadows, behind the tall drapes at the back of the room. As the consultants walked from the room and towards the elevators, the figure emerged from behind the shadows, removed a cell phone from its pocket and scrolled through its contacts.

"Sir" the husky voice breathed into the cell. "We have a problem."


	5. From This Day Forward

A/N: Hi everyone :) Thanks for supporting the story, and sorry for the delay in updating! The next chapter will be uploaded tomorrow, and from then on things will get more interesting.

Thanks again for your support, and please let me know if there are any comments/issues/complaints.

Thanks,  
>HQ21<p>

As soon as Sherlock and Joan got out of the elevator and had made their way back to their room, Sherlock unlocked the door using his key card, pushing it open for his partner to walk through. As the door shut firmly behind them, Sherlock removed his hand from Joan's lower back and moved across the room and towards the room he had been using. Joan remained on the spot for a moment, lingering there as she felt the warmth from the place his hand had just departed turn cool. Even after he had removed his hand, and was setting up his laptop upon the table in front of the couch, Joan could still feel the memory of his hand upon her back. She blinked herself away from these thoughts, chiding herself for them as she walked towards the bedroom and tossed her jacket and clutch bag upon the bed. She reasoned had been a long day and she was probably just tired. And after not having worked with or even spoken to Sherlock in months, to suddenly working with him undercover in a hotel, whilst posing as a married couple, it was unsurprising that she was adjusting to the new and different nature of their relationship. His hand on her back did not have any significance, it was simply a move to solidify their cover. That was all.

"Watson!" Sherlock called from the couch, causing Joan to blink herself from her thoughts and turn towards him with a start. She was grateful that he had called to her over his shoulder, otherwise he would have almost certainly commented upon the flushed and slightly confused look upon her face.

"Yeah" she returned, removing her phone from her clutch bag and walking towards him.

"I am going to set up the security cameras and other measures in the rooms, if that is acceptable?" he asked, standing up from the couch as she reached his side. Joan sighed. She knew that some security measures were necessary, for their case and for their safety. But she could not help but remember the last time they discussed security cameras within the walls of the space they shared, and what it led to. Joan discarded this thought, pushing it to the back of her mind, as she turned her head up and faced Sherlock.

"Just keep them out of the bathroom" she stated, stepping back and sitting down upon the couch. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and nodded in agreement, before walking briskly into the other room and beginning to set up the security system.

Whilst Sherlock was setting up the cameras, which he placed in all rooms apart from the bedroom and bathroom, Joan occupied herself by scanning through the files and the electronic records on the people they were looking into, with a particular focus on Douglas Dalton, who was expected in the morning. Joan read through the hard copy of his file, before researching him using various online resources that she had been authorised to access. With each article she read she found herself even more determined to ensure that Dalton was brought to justice. From the available material, it was clear that Dalton's reach into the criminal world of exchanging women for money was seemingly endless. He had been linked to disappearances of women in several continents, and his affiliations with various gangs or criminal enterprises in those continents made Moriarty's criminal connections seem almost modest. As she scrolled through the online resources, she found herself faced with a collection of photographs of young women who had disappeared. At a glance, she recognised a few of the faces from the file Gregson had shown her and Sherlock in is office. But those pictures were only the tip of the iceburg. Joan closed down the tabs and shut the top of the laptop, leaning back in her seat as her mind whirred with information. She knew that, realistically, a high number of the missing girls would be either dead or untraceable. No matter how hard they tried or how successful they were, they could not change that. But they would certainly try.

"All done, Watson" came the weary voice of Sherlock as he walked through the lounge area, armed with miniature cameras, wires and a selection of tools. "The cameras and motion detectors, which we can activate and set remotely, have all been set up in the communal areas, as we discussed" he stated reassuringly, nodding and gesturing slightly with his hand as he spoke. "The cameras are also in the room which I have occupied, as it houses the majority of our technology, which would be the key area for intruders to search" he continued, nodding as he spoke.

"Okay, that's fine" Joan replied, the tiredness in her voice echoing his own. "Unless you bring one of your female friends up here. In which case let me know the day after, and you can be the one to review the tapes" she stated lightly, drawing her mug of hot fruit tea to her lips as she spoke. She closed her eyes as she took a small sip, as the raspberry-scented steam from the mug drifted up towards her eyes. It was because of this that she did not witness the brief raise of Sherlock's eyebrows, followed by the narrowing of his lips and a small nod.

"I hardly think that would go unnoticed in a honeymoon suite, do you?" he returned, attempting to sound chipper as he spoke. "Besides, I am quite certain that my wife does not approve" he added lightly, moving across the room and removing a bottle of water from the mini fridge. Joan watched him as he did so, before sighing lightly as she placed her mug back upon the table.

"I didn't mean it like that" she said soothingly, leaning forwards and clasping her hands in her lap, as Sherlock opened the bottle and took a sip as he stood before the fireplace. "Sherlock, you know I didn't. Besides, I'm hardly one to give relationship advice, am I?" she added, hoping that the comment would cause him to mock her lightly or realise that she did not mean to cause offence. In truth, Sherlock's casual relationships with women had concerned her. But after she found herself seeking the same in men, and only that kind of relationship with them, she felt that she understood him better. And what he said to her about relationships, and having ones which suit her needs and requirements, made sense.

"As I've said before, Watson" Sherlock began, causing Joan to look up towards him. "You needn't be so harsh on yourself. Conventional relationships were never for either of us" he continued, taking another swig of the water as he walked towards her. "But, speaking of casual sexual encounters with people we are not well acquainted with" he stated merrily as he sat beside her on the couch. "The waiter who took us into the dining hall and served us during the evening was certain looking at you in a-"

"No he wasn't" she returned modestly.

"-manner which I, as your husband" Sherlock stated, placing his hand upon his chest as he over-pronounced the last word. "Found to be wholly inappropriate" he stated, feigning disdain and disapproval as he leaned back casually in his seat, his legs relaxing against the back of the couch as he glanced up towards Joan. "I'd have told you both to get a room had it not blown our cover" he added dismissively.

Joan turned her head towards him and gave him a reprimanding glance, raising her eyebrows as she leaned back against the couch too.

"The waiter did no such thing" she returned simply.

"His name is Leo" Sherlock continued casually. "Leo Clements."

"I'm not interested" she returned lightly, laughing slightly as she spoke, before leaning forwards and picking up the brown manilla folder and her reading glasses.

"He's thirty-six, tall, athletic" stated Sherlock, staring up at the ceiling as he spoke. "He has attends a local gym on a regular basis, is a vegetarian, lives alone-"

"Sherlock-" Joan sighed.

"-has a tattoo on the back of his left palm, drinks expensive red wine-"

"Sherlock" Joan repeated, her tone slightly firmer than it had been before.

"-and has a fondness for dalmatians-"

"Stop" Joan stated firmly, removing her glasses and turning to face him. Sherlock to turn towards her and scanned her face briefly for signs of anger or annoyance, but found none. Instead, as his eyes rose up her face and met hers, he found a look of sadness drift across her eyes.

"I apologise" he stated sincerely. "I did not wish to-"

"You didn't" she returned gently. Before he had a chance to respond she passed him the manilla folder she was holding and indicated towards a highlighted passage. "Look here" she stated, indicating towards it with her glasses. "In Dalton's personnel file it says that he is typically accompanied by some hired security, people who are around him constantly. But according to our sources he is checking in alone tomorrow" Sherlock nodded in agreement. "So where are his security?" she asked in a low and gentle tone. "He's coming here to meet with some pretty high-ranking officials in his sleazy little world, so why is he coming alone?" she asked, leaning back and sighing. "The only way this makes sense would be-"

"-if his security team are already here" stated Sherlock, meeting Joan's eyes as she nodded in agreement.

"Yeah" she returned. "Well, maybe."

"It's good, Watson" he began gently. "I believe you could be right."

"We should run checks on the guests straight away. I'm sure Thomas could get us the names of the guests, and we can start eliminating them" Joan stated. "I think we should focus on people who are booked into rooms on his floor. If I was him I'd want my security team as close to me as possible."

"You're quite right" Sherlock stated, nodding as he spoke. He then leaned forward slightly and pulled his phone from his pocket, typing out a message and sending it. "I've just text Thomas, hopefully he will be able to email us the relevant files."

"It's almost eleven, Sherlock" Joan stated. "It's getting late, and we have to be up early tomorrow to make sure we're in the restaurant by the time Dalton arrives."

"And yet" Sherlock stated, placing his phone upon the table. "Here we are". Joan looked up towards him, their eyes meeting across the dimly lit room. Before either of them could speak, the sound of Sherlock's message tone drew their attention to the table. Sherlock picked up the phone and opened the message, scanning it briefly. "Thomas has emailed me the list. There are currently sixty-eight guests in the hotel, with twelve arriving tomorrow." Joan nodded in understanding.

"That's eighty people, Sherlock" she stated.

"Well, seventy eight, if we exclude ourselves" Sherlock returned. "You are not a member of this despicable individual's security team, I presume?"

"Seventy eight, then" she returned, as Sherlock handed her the phone. She glanced down the list of names, scrolling until it reached the end, before sighing. "It's going to be a long night" she stated, and Sherlock nodded in return.

An hour later Sherlock and Joan had managed to eliminate half of the names, including eight of the people who were due to check in the next day. But as it reached midnight, Joan found the tiredness which she had been battling begin to consume her. She removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes tiredly, before turning to the side.

"Sherlock-" she sighed, turning to face her partner who was sat upon the ground, his back against the sofa. When he did not respond immediately she leaned down and called his name once more. She smiled slightly as she was met with the sound of his gentle and rhythmic breathing, as a black pen fell from between his fingertips. _So much for not falling asleep_ she mused, easing herself off the couch and walking into Sherlock's 'den'. She emerged a few moments later carrying a dark blue blanket, which she draped across her sleeping partner. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his head leaning back against the couch, his legs stretched out in front of him. As Joan wrapped the blanket across him and made sure it was secure, she could not help but observe the peaceful look of contentment which was upon his face. She smiled warmly, pushing herself into a standing position as she watched him sleep. After a couple of moments she turned on the spot, walking from the room and towards her bedroom. "Good night" she whispered, turning back briefly towards him as she spoke.

Joan slept soundly that night, her weary body collapsing into the comforting pillows as sleep embraced her. Therefore, she was not at all annoyed or even surprised when she felt the familiar movements of their shelled companion walking across her stomach. Joan opened her eyes, blinking a few times to adjust herself to the lightness of the room, before pressing her hands down upon the mattress and pulling herself into a sitting position. She brushed some hair tiredly from her face, before picking up Clyde and holding him to her. Clyde adjusted himself in her hands, his small feet pressing gently against her palm, as she kicked aside her covers and stepped out of the bed.

As Joan walked into the lounge area holding Clyde, she saw Sherlock emerge from his den, and was surprised to find that he was already showered and dressed. A cursory glance at the clock upon the mantel piece revealed that it was six-thirty in the morning.

"Ah, Watson, you're awake, excellent" he stated brightly, walking towards her as he spoke.

"It is, actually" she returned as she adjusted to being awake. "Thank you for sending my alarm clock" she stated, raising Clyde in her hands as she spoke. "The angry buzzing sound from my cell is never quite the same first thing in the morning" she added, as her glance drifted down to the turtle in her hands. Sherlock watched the scene before him, and found himself considering how it would make quite a remarkable painting. "Have you been awake long?" she asked, her eyes drifting down to the discarded blanket upon the ground.

"Only a couple of hours" he stated dismissively, walking towards the table and picking up a sheet of paper. "After a brief sleep I was able to narrow down our list even more. I managed to eliminate twenty-two more members, meaning that our current list is down to seventeen."

"Great" Joan replied, walking towards him and placing Clyde in his carry case, which she found contained fresh lettuce leaves and various salad items. "According to the files he usually has four to six people on his security detail. But as this is seems to be a pretty big meeting it is possible that he'll have more."

"Or less" Sherlock returned. "We do not know the exact nature of the meeting, but considering the man's paranoia and wariness of outsiders, it is possible that he would wish to limit the amount of unnecessary individuals around him."

"Even at the risk of his own safety?" Joan asked uncertainly, crossing her arms across her chest as she turned back to face Sherlock. "That seems quite risky."

"Meeting three or four associates in a public albeit up-scale New York hotel is hardly below the radar and without risks, Watson" he returned, taking a few steps towards the table as he glanced down towards Clyde. "But the man is an arrogant chauvinist, and as he has managed to elude capture and prosecution for the past two decades, I feel it would be unwise to attempt to make assumptions about his behaviour."

"I agree" Joan returned, nodding as she spoke. Sherlock lifted his head to meet her gaze, as she hugged her baggy white bed-shirt close to her body. "I should get dressed" she stated simply, walking through the room and past Sherlock.

"Of course" he replied. "Shall we go down to breakfast at half seven?" he asked, turning towards her as she walked back towards her bedroom.

"Sure" she called over her shoulder, before picking up her carry case from the foot of the bed and taking it into the bathroom. A few moments later Sherlock could hear the sound of hot water running from the shower. In the forty-five minutes that passed, Sherlock spent his time going over the files of the remaining seventeen hotel guests, who he attempted to eliminate.

Shortly before half-past seven Joan emerged from her bedroom, wearing a semi-formal black dress and matching heels, with a fitted blazer and black clutch bag with silver detail. Her hair was arranged over her shoulders in loose curls. She wore make-up which accentuated her beautiful eyes, and her lips were a stunning shade of reddish-brown wish suited her well.

"Are you ready?" she asked, picking up a scarf from the back of the couch and arranging it around her neck. Sherlock walked from his den with a file in his hand, his eyes rising from it and falling upon her body. He considered her for a moment, before nodding towards her and placing the file upon the table.

"Of course" he stated, picking up his jacket from the back of a chair and following her towards the door. Before she reached the door, Joan picked up her phone from her clutch bag and scanned I briefly, and frowned as she noticed the six missed calls she had received from Andrew. She considered it for a moment, before dialling his number and placing the phone to her ear. The call went directly to voice-mail, so she hung up and placed the phone back into her bag.

"Is everything alright, Watson?" Sherlock asked, as he adjusted his jacket.

"Yeah, fine" she mumbled absent-mindedly as she opened the door and walked into the corridor.

As they passed through the door, down the corridor and into the elevator, Joan found herself feeling cold and slightly nervous. As the elevator pinged at the first floor, the foyer, she stepped out and found herself realising what it was that was causing her to feel so strange. Sherlock's hand was not upon her lower back. She bit her lower lip slightly, before stepping confidently out of the elevator and walking towards the restaurant. Sherlock stepped in front of her, opening the door for her and allowing her to pass through. She gave him a warm and grateful look as they stepped into the restaurant, and were shown to their table by the same waiter they had seen the night before, a man Sherlock had identified as 'Leo'.

"Good morning, Mr and Mrs Taylor" Leo greeted pleasantly, his eyes smiling as he welcomed them. Joan looked towards him, her eyes resting on his, as she nodded politely in return and wished him a good morning. Sherlock watched the look Leo gave Joan, considering it for a moment as the waiter pulled out her seat for her, and his hands lingered on the back of her seat for a few moments longer than necessary. Joan eased herself into it and he tucked her in, as Sherlock removed his jacket and draped it across his own chair. Leo talked them through the menu and informed them that he would be back shortly to take their orders. Joan thanked him, accepting the menu from him and scanning it briefly. Sherlock took his menu wordlessly from the younger man's grasp, glancing at it briefly before looking up towards Joan, who was studying hers with sad eyes and a pensive expression.

"Are you quite certain that you are alright?" Sherlock asked gently, causing Joan to look up from behind her menu.

"Of course" she returned in a casual manner. "Why?"

"You seem-" he paused, watching as Joan lowered her menu and met his gaze. "-distracted. Unhappy." Joan breathed in deeply and ran her fingers down the side of the menu.

"I'm fine" she stated reassuringly. "I just... I had a few missed calls from Andrew and I don't know why he'd be calling."

"You find it surprising that he would call you?" Sherlock asked, confusion entering his tone.

"Not surprising, no" she stated in a low tone. "Just odd" she added, picking up her menu once more.

"Do you wish to discuss it?" Sherlock asked kindly.

"No" she replied gently. "Thank you, but no. The only reason I mentioned it was so you wouldn't try to imply my lower mood was due to my menstrual cycle" she stated lightly, humour entering her tone.

"I can assure you that I would never have made such a remark" Sherlock returned simply, lifting his menu and briefly scanning the contents. "Not for another week and six days, at least" he added. His eyes rose instantly and found that Joan was watching at him with a remonstrative gaze over her menu. Before she could lower the menu and respond, Sherlock placed his menu on the table and glanced over her shoulder at the approaching figure of Leo.

"Are you both ready to order?" he asked, glancing from Sherlock to Joan. As Leo had approached the table, Joan had maintained her stare at Sherlock, which had meant that she instantly noticed the change in his expression. His eyes narrowed and his features tensed slightly, as he sat up slightly straighter in his chair and gave his order. Joan's eyes drifted slowly from Sherlock and towards Leo, who was watching her with a gentle expression. Joan gave her order quickly, before handing him back the menu and glancing back towards Sherlock, who stared at the younger man as he walked away.

"And are _you_ okay?" Joan asked, clasping her hands and placing them on the table.

"Fine" he returned, glancing briefly at Joan before watching Leo, who was walking towards another table.

"Really?" she asked, tilting her head to the side slightly as she adopted a gentler, lighter expression. "Why are you glaring at that waiter?" Sherlock did not address her question immediately, but continued to watch the waiter for several moments, before his gaze drifted back to Joan.

"That waiter" he stated simply.

"You mean Leo?" Joan asked. "The vegetarian, gym-enthusiast who loves dalmatians?"

"That's the one" Sherlock stated, looking back towards Leo and watching as he disappeared behind the bar.

"What about him?" she asked, running her eyes across his body and watching as he relaxed slightly under her gaze. But despite appearing calmer, he did not look at her. Instead, he drummed his fingers lightly on the table as he looked at the spot over her shoulder and towards the bar. "Sherlock?" she whispered, watching how his eyelids did not even flicker at the calling of his name. Joan thought for a moment, before unclasping her hands and slowly reaching across the table. She placed her right hand on top of his, her palm pressed against the back of his hand as her fingers gently touched his palm, causing his tapping to still instantly. Sherlock blinked himself out of his reverie and glanced instantly towards her, his eyes a mixture of confusion and surprise, which disappeared after a few moments, and he returned to a calm and composed demeanour. Sherlock's shoulders and back became notably less tense and his features softened. Joan continued to remain still for a moment, waiting to see if he would shift uncomfortably or attempt to retract his hand instantly. He did not. Instead, Sherlock turned his hand to the side, so that his fingers gently brushed across hers. The sensation of his fingertips running down her finger and towards her palm caused her to feel breathless and tingly, as her fingers lightly grazed his in return. At the moment before it looked like he was about to hold her hand upon the table, Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat, and removed his hand gently from hers. Joan leaned back instantly, clasping her hands before her once more, as she glanced over Sherlock's shoulder and towards the foyer. Their food was delivered a few minutes later, and they both spent a short while cutting up and moving several pieces of the delicious breakfast which neither of them found themselves able to eat.

Shortly after eight o'clock, a tall man with light brown hair in a bespoke black suit walked towards the front desk, accompanied by a blonde woman in her mid-forties. Although Joan had watched several individuals check in over the past half an hour, she was yet to see a clearly affluent man with some luggage from the airport carrying his own cases. The man who was speaking to the receptionist and Thomas behind the counter was pulling a large suitcase behind him, and was carrying a carry case and laptop bag. His female companion had a suitcase and laptop bag too, and was standing a few paces away from him, glancing towards him as he spoke and gestured towards the staff behind the counter. Joan watched with interest as Thomas nodded slowly towards the man, before offering him a polite smile and handing him a key card. He turned to the younger woman to the side and handed her key card too, and she nodded politely in response, holding the card between her fingers. Although her lip-reading skills were not on par with Sherlock's, from her position she was certain that Thomas had just offered to assist the new arrival with his luggage. And based on his reaction and Thomas's nodding and body language, the older gentleman had declined. Thomas said a few words of politeness to the man and his companion, before pointing them towards the elevator, which they walked towards immediately. Thomas shared a confused look with the receptionist, who picked up a phone and began to dial. Thomas then turned to the letter-boxes behind the desk and removed a small stack of letters, slipping something between the first and second ones, and carrying them towards the restaurant.

"Mr and Mrs Taylor, isn't it?" Thomas asked, looking from Sherlock to Joan as he spoke.

"It is" Sherlock replied cordially.

"These were delivered for you this morning, sir" he stated formally, placing the letters in front of Sherlock, who glanced briefly down at them and nodded in understanding. Thomas then removed a notepad from his pocket as well as a pen, and moved around the table so he was standing between Sherlock and Joan, his back towards the other guests. "That's our man, Mr Dalton" he mumbled, writing on the paper as he spoke, and gesturing towards the bar. "His companion is a Miss Catherine Adams, who he introduced as his PA."

"I do not recall her name" Sherlock mumbled, looking towards Joan, who shook her head.

"Nor do I" Thomas continued, glancing towards Joan, who pointed to his notepad as she spoke.

"They didn't want help with their cases?" she asked. Thomas continued to write on the paper as he shook his head 'no'.

"No, he insisted they would carry their own cases, he declined all offers of assistance" Thomas responded. "However, he did request that we call a car to take him into the city in about thirty minutes' time" Thomas stated, glancing towards Sherlock as he turned over a new sheet in his notepad and continued to write. "I have placed a key-card to his room, room eighty-three on the eighth floor, between this stack of letters. Ms Adams is in the room next to him, and there is an adjourning door that you should be able to get through" he stated, before leaning back and nodding towards them, and heading towards the next table with his notebook. Sherlock drew the letters slowly towards them, running his fingers over the stack until he could feel the side of the key-card between the top two letters.

"We should wait here until we see them leave, then wait a further ten minutes before searching the rooms" Sherlock stated. "As soon as they leave the hotel they will be followed by detectives, and we'll have their report by the end of the day."

"Sure" replied Joan, taking a small sip of her orange juice. "Do you want to take Dalton's room and I'll take hers?"

"Very well" Sherlock replied.

"I suppose then we could switch" she stated, watching Sherlock as his eyes drifted towards her. "We may pick up something the other missed." Sherlock nodded in response, before tidying the stack of letters before him and placing them to one side, as he rose his coffee cup to his lips and took a tentative sip. Joan placed her hands around her own coffee mug, warming her hands as she glanced across the foyer at the newest arrivals to the hotel: a young couple who wrapped their arms around each other and smiled brightly. Joan's features warmed slightly and a small smile played on her lips, as the smitten couple accepted their key cards and were walked towards the elevators, their eyes not leaving each other's. As Joan lifted her mug towards her lips she felt her engagement ring tap lightly against the side of it, and her expression became slightly more solemn, returning to its previously pensive state. Joan placed the mug back upon the table, her arms resting upon the white tablecloth as she continued to gaze towards the reception desk. A moment later, Joan was surprised to feel the unfamiliar sensation of Sherlock's fingers against her own. She blinked once, glancing from the reception desk to the table, where Sherlock's hand was resting over hers, his fingers curling across the back of her hand and holding it reassuringly. Sherlock watched as her features softened and she relaxed slightly, her hand clasping his tightly in return.


	6. For Better

A/N: Hi everyone, thank you for reading the last chapter, and thanks for your reviews. I hope you enjoy this chapter! If there are any questions/concerns/requests, please let me know :)

Thanks!

- HQ21

ElFan: I did not plan to introduce Moriarty into this story, as I have already written the majority of the plot. However, since reading your comment I have thought about how I could place her into the story. It would be near the end and it would be brief, but I would be happy to include it if you would like me to?

Mmkbrook: Thank you for your comments, they were a lovely to read and made me smile :) and of course Clyde gets salad, he's on vacation! ;)

Iara: Thank you for your kind reviews, they really have meant a lot.

Sherlock and Joan remained seated at the table, their hands warming each other's for several minutes. Their fingers had explored each other's, the newness of the previously forbidden contact intriguing them both. The warmth and softness of Joan's fingers as they brushed against his caused Sherlock's breathing to deepen and his heart to beat faster. They each enjoyed the exploratory sensation for a short while, before Sherlock entwined his fingers with Joan's, and their hands remained clasped together upon the table, fingers locked and palms pressed, as the busy bustling environment faded into a distant blur. Neither or them spoke or made eye contact with each other, and instead focused their attention upon their hands or the table, their eyes focusing on a single spot as they processed their thoughts. It was only when Leo approached the table to enquire about their breakfast that they found their attention reluctantly removed from their hands and their thoughts. They both turned towards the waiter, startled to have been pulled from their reveries. But despite their initial surprise and disorientation at the change of subject, their hands remained clasped together upon the table, their position unchanging. In fact, Joan felt certain that Sherlock held her hand just that little bit tighter.

"Is everything alright sir, madam?" Leo asked, looking from the plates to Sherlock and Joan. The food had been cut up but remained untouched.

"Fine, thank you, yes" Sherlock returned instantly, turning towards Leo and addressing him with an almost amiable tone. "My wife and I are not as hungry as we thought, and our attentions have been elsewhere" he stated, his thumb running lightly across the side of Joan's hand.

"I understand" Leo smiled. "Shall I clear the table for you?"

"If you would, yes" Sherlock replied, as Leo walked around the table and collected the plates.

"Thank you" mumbled Joan, turning towards the waiter with a friendly expression.

"That's alright, ma'am" he returned politely, nodding before he took the plates away. Joan turned her attentions from the waiter, but before she could face Sherlock she found her body refusing to allow her any further movement. She swallowed slightly, as did he, before their hands slowly disentangled themselves, and they each turned to face each other with an unreadable expression. There was a brief yet comfortable silence for a few moments, until Joan leaned back in her chair and faced the front desk.

"Dalton's leaving" she said in a low tone as she clasped her hands in her lap. "Catherine Adams is with him" she added, before looking up at Sherlock, who gave her a brief nod.

"We will wait ten minutes or so, until we are certain they have left" he replied. Joan nodded in response. For the next ten minutes they discussed the plan for searching the rooms and for how they would spend their time afterwards. They agreed that Sherlock would search Douglas Dalton's room, taking pictures if necessary, and that Joan would do the same in Catherine Adams's room. As they spoke, their tones remained professional and their gaze met only a handful of times, as their hands remained on their own sides of the table. After almost quarter of an hour had passed Sherlock and Joan stood from their seats, with Sherlock helping his partner with her coat before they walked from the restaurant, side by side.

Once they were inside the elevator Sherlock removed the key card from between the letters before handing the small stack to Joan, who deposited them in her clutch bag, which closed with a click. The elevator pinged as they reached the eighth floor, and after walking along the nondescript corridor and glancing around for any loitering guests, Sherlock opened Dalton's door and ushered Joan inside.

The room was almost an exact replica of their own, apart from having smaller rooms and a less extravagant bed. Joan rose her eyes as she realised this, walking through the room and looking around with interest. As he had left quickly Dalton had not had a change to unpack fully, but one of his suitcases lay open upon the bed, some clothes spilling over the top of it. The black suit he wore on the way in had been discarded upon a chair, and replaced with the charcoal grey one he left in. Joan glanced inside his bedroom before turning back to Sherlock, who was standing over the safe in the lounge, and tilting his head to the side as he considered it. Joan turned on the spot and watched Sherlock work, his deft fingers and tools making sharp scratching and clicking noises for a short while before, ninety seconds later, the door opened.

"That's impressive" Joan stated as she took a few steps towards Sherlock, who looked up towards her as she approached him. "Aren't these safes meant to be-"

"-safe?" he asked, exhaling as he spoke. She nodded in response, which he returned, before turning back to the device before him. "Yes, Watson, they are. This particular model is supposed to be impenetrable" he stated, pronouncing the final word with feigned confusion. "And yet, this one practically swung open for me" he stated, raising his arms in the air as he spoke. "But I suppose the three hours I have spent working on the identical safe in our suite aided the effort". Joan sighed and rolled her eyes, before turning back to Sherlock as he opened the door and pulled out a small laptop from the safe, which he turned over in his hands. Joan frowned slightly.

"Why didn't he just take that with him?" she asked. "He has a laptop bag, we saw it when he arrived. He didn't leave with it."

"Who knows, Watson" Sherlock breathed, before turning back to his partner. "Perhaps the oblivious buffoon did not foresee two consultants breaking into his room and ransacking his safe."

"Yeah, maybe" she sighed in agreement, tilting her head to the side and glancing at the door to the side of the bed. "That must be the adjoining room to Catherine Adams' room" she began. "I'm gonna go check it out. Let me know if you find anything."

"And you" Sherlock returned brightly, as he leapt to his feet and held the laptop before him like a prize, before turning on the spot and sitting on the couch. Joan considered how comfortable he appeared, and how 'at home' he was making himself in the room of the deplorable human being they were pursuing. She turned on her heels and strolled towards the door, unlocking it with her lock-picking kit, before passing through it and into the next room.

Sherlock heard Joan working on the door, which she opened in less than eight seconds. He titled his head to the side slightly as he considered the time. She was certainly improving. Sherlock's attention then befell the laptop which was on the table before him. It was a sleek black model with soundless keys and a light weight. He cracked the password in four minutes, and began working on searching through the laptop for relevant files or suspect material. After a few minutes of searching he found some hidden files which, upon closer examination, appeared to be encrypted. Sherlock frowned as he attempted to read them, but to no avail. He removed a memory stick from his pocket and inserted it into the laptop, before copying the files onto it. Although they were unreadable at the moment, he had an associate he met in his brief stint in MI6 who specialised in such matters, and who owed him a (rather large) favour. After the half a dozen or so files were copied over, Sherlock hacked into Dalton's emails, skimming over a few of the entries before searching the deleted files. He then copied these files over to the memory stick too.

As the information was downloading he stood from the couch and walked briskly towards the man's luggage, searching through it quickly but efficiently. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion as he looked through the man's clothes, which were clearly expensive and of a well-known brand, but appeared to be at least two inches too small for him. _Vanity_ Sherlock thought, tossing the clothes back into the case. "Pillock" he spat, before running his hand over the case to search for hidden compartments. He found none, and made his way across to the second suit case. As he pulled it onto the bed and unzipped it, he could hear the sound of Joan's voice from the other room. He paused for a moment, standing up still and listening out, to see if she was talking to him. After hearing the name of her ex-boyfriend being repeated in a low, hesitant tone, Sherlock turned from the door and continued looking through Dalton's suitcase.

Joan had walked straight towards the bedroom, which was where Catherine had placed all of her luggage, including her laptop bag. Joan searched through the suitcase and carry case first, finding clothes, cosmetics and several universal chargers in the case. As she unzipped the carry case she found herself facing a worn and well-handled photograph, which lay at the top of a small stack of clothes and a couple of books. Joan gently plucked the photo from its place, lifting it into the light so she could consider it further. The image was at least twenty years old, the edges were torn and the colour was faded. And yet, the smiling face of the young mother holding the baby in the centre shone through, amongst the cracked card and ripped corners. As she looked closer, Joan noticed that the young woman in the photograph was almost certainly Catherine Adams. The baby she was holding was unquestionably a newborn, who Catherine was holding securely in a knitted white blanket. Joan turned the image over and stared at the back, which was clear apart from a single word scrolled in ink upon the lower-right hand corner. 'Penny'. Joan held the photograph in her hand as she searched through the bag, before placing it back where she found it and carefully re-sealing it.

Joan then picked the laptop bag, sliding the computer from the tight-fitting case and placing it upon her lap as she sat on the bed. The laptop was password protected, but the brief time she spent working with Bell on a case involving computer crimes had meant that she was now quite able to bypass such matters. Less than a minute later she was staring at the desktop background, which was an image of a small cottage in some mountains, with smoke billowing from the rustic chimney. Joan glanced at this for a moment, admiring the image and considering what it revealed about an individual who would choose it as the first thing they saw upon opening their computer. It was picturesque and peaceful, in an isolated location. And yet the homeliness of the image, the rustic house and the comforting smoke rising from the chimney, gave it a notably calming and reassuring ambience. As Joan opened up the documents, she considered how much Catherine wished to be surrounded by simple homely comforts, and yet in a peaceful and solitary place she could call her own.

After a few moments Joan selected a folder simply entitled 'P', which revealed approximately thirty pictures of a young woman with more than a slight resemblance to Catherine herself. As Joan scrolled to the bottom, she found that there were several images of the young woman, including ones of her as a teenager and a child. From the bottom were pictures of her as a baby and toddler, and as she scrolled up she was able to witness the girl's growth. The girl, who Joan deduced must be 'Penny', exuded intelligence and kindness, and had an infectious smile which lit up her features. She had a pale complexion and big blue eyes, and her hair was a similar shade and style to her mother's. Joan closed down the folder and inserted her memory stick into the laptop, copying over the files as she searched through the other bags. After a few minutes of careful searching Joan found nothing of concern, and pulled her memory stick from the laptop before shutting it down and placing it back inside the carrier.

Just as Joan was about to walk back into Dalton's room, her phone began to buzz repeatedly in her clutch bag. She sighed lightly, opening the bag and removing the phone, before glancing down at the caller ID. It was Andrew. Joan stilled for a moment, her finger hovering over the 'reject' button for a moment, before travelling past it and accepting the call.

"Hello" she answered gently, placing one hand on her hip as she turned around and began walking back towards the bed.

"Joan? Hey" Andrew replied, his voice low and nervous. Joan's eyes widened at the tone, as she clutched the phone closer to her ear, and waited patiently for him to continue. "Are you busy?"

"Uh, kinda, yeah" she replied, glancing behind her and then back towards the bed. "Andrew I'm working on a case at the moment, is this something that can wait?" There was a brief pause on the other end of the phone, and Joan listened carefully for sounds on the other end. "Andrew?" she called gently.

"I..." he began, sighing as he broke off. "I miss you, Joanie." Joan closed her eyes and pressed her lips tightly together, bowing her head as she breathed in deeply. As he continued to speak, her eyes flicked open and she gazed upwards, focusing her attention on the portrait above the bed. "We haven't spoken in almost two weeks and I... well I was hoping that we could meet up and discuss where we go from here." Joan swallowed as she listened to his words, before walking towards the window and leaning against the wall.

"I thought we talked about all that when we last met" she returned gently. "We agreed that-"

"No, Joan, I-" he began, sighing once more as he cut her off. "I was wrong, okay? I'm sorry. I don't want this too end."

"Andrew-" she breathed, placing a hand upon her face.

"Will you at least think about it, Joan? Please? Just, like, take a couple days, and call me back? Yes?" Joan tilted her head back and adjusted her hand on her hip, her mind racing with thoughts which she was struggling to put into words. "Joan?"

"I can't" she whispered. "I'm sorry, Andrew, but I can't. You are wonderful and you are sweet, but... it wasn't working. We tried to make it work but it just-"

"Are you seeing someone else?" he asked, his tone losing is soft edge.

"What?" Joan asked, surprise entering her voice.

"Are you seeing someone, Joan?" he asked, sounding almost hurt.

"No" she replied. "Andrew I have to go, okay? I'm sorry." There was an uncomfortable silence for several moments, before Andrew hung up the phone without a word. Joan sighed, disconnecting the call and leaning back against the wall. She sighed deeply, before placing the phone back into her clutch bag along with the memory stick and heading into the next room to meet Sherlock.

"Watson" Sherlock greeted, placing the laptop back into the safe and pocketing the memory stick, nodding towards her as she entered. "How was your search?"

"Mm" she began, tilting her head to the side. "Interesting, I guess. You?"

Sherlock rose from the ground and stood tall before her, as they discussed their findings. Joan explained that she believed Catherine had a daughter, was in her mid-forties and a British citizen. She wore clothes that were well-made but not expensive, and her choice of books and photography revealed her to be a thoughtful individual who appreciated solitude. She also told him that she had copied the majority of the files on her laptop, including her email. Sherlock nodded in understanding, before informing Joan of the encrypted files he copied, which he would be working on that evening. He told her that Dalton was a vain narcissist who wore ill-fitting clothes and expensive aftershave, visited 'repulsively luxurious' hairdressing establishments, had 'eclectic and soul-destroying' taste in pornography and favoured peppermint tea.

"Right" Joan returned, nodding towards him. "We should get out of here. We've been in here for fifteen minutes and the maids clean the rooms at ten."

"So they do" Sherlock breathed, glancing at his phone. It was only nine-fifteen, but neither of them wished to spend a moment more in those rooms than was necessary. They slipped quietly out of the room, making a beeline for the elevator and breathing relaxedly as the doors shut behind them and the lift travelled upwards to their floor.

"So what do you think their connection is?" Joan began, turning towards Sherlock as she spoke. "Lovers?"  
>"In separate rooms?" he questioned, giving her a confused look.<p>

"In _adjoining_ rooms" she corrected. "Lovers concealing their relationship?" she returned, as the elevator came to a stop and the doors pinged open.

"In separate rooms" he repeated in a slow and incredulous manner, his tone indicating is was a declaration rather than a question. Joan sighed.

"They have the exact same type of laptop, a new and expensive model. So I guess they probably work together. Well, she works for him" she stated, as she unlocked the door to their suite and walked in, dropping her clutch bag onto the couch and shrugging off her jacket. Sherlock walked past her and sat upon the sofa, dragging his laptop towards him and inserting the memory stick.

"I still find it odd" she mumbled, moving closer to him as she draped her jacket across the back of the sofa.

"What?" Sherlock asked, typing on the computer as he spoke.

"That he left his laptop and the files were there, ready to take" she stated, sitting on the chair opposite him.

"To take, but not to _read_" Sherlock countered, still typing as he continued to speak. "I have reached out to an associate of mine at MI6, who will email me the software required to decrypt the files."

"Yeah" Joan said, tilting her head to the side slightly. "I still find it odd. I mean, if these files are so important they require decryption, why leave the laptop?" Sherlock stopped typing for a moment and rose his eyes above the top of the laptop, meeting Joan's gaze.

"In my experience, Watson, the most arrogant are also the most stupid" he stated, his eyes falling upon the wry smile which played on her lips. "Although clearly there are some exceptions" he replied, leaning down and typing away once more. "I suspect that Mr Dalton does not believe anyone would have realised that he rescheduled his flight and would be arriving early. He also, presumably, has some security individuals who should have been watching his room, who we still need to identify. But it appears that none of those individuals expected such a swift entrance into their den of depravity." Joan listened carefully to Sherlock's explanation, nodding in agreement as she considered the logic and probability of his argument.

"Yeah, possible" she returned. "Either way, we have a personal insight on them, even if the files are beyond-"

"They shan't be beyond decryption, Watson" Sherlock stated merrily. "Of that you can be certain."

"Okay" she responded, nodding as she reached for her own laptop and placed it on her lap. She drew her legs upon the comfortable seat and sat on them as she adjusted the laptop's position on her lap and entered her password. Sherlock cast occasional glances in her direction as he typed, and found his eyes drawn to her own, which seemed to brim with preoccupation and sadness. Her features were tense and her movements slow. Clearly, something was wrong. And he suspected it was related to the phone call she received whilst in Catherine Adams' room.

"Watson" Sherlock stated in a gentle tone, causing his partner to look up instantly from her laptop. "Is something wrong?"

"No" she returned simply. "Why?" Sherlock was silent for a several moments, his eyes meeting hers and holding her gaze. Although he was curious, he did not wish to press her if she were uncomfortable.

"Well, if... if that changes" he returned, speaking slowly and gently, lowering his eyes briefly before facing her directly once more, "I hope you know that I would very much like to hear what you have to say." Joan watched him for a moment, his kind eyes and gentle expression. She sighed lightly, pushing the lid of her laptop down and leaning back against her seat.

"Andrew called me earlier" she began, rising her right hand dismissively as she spoke. "He wants to get back together" she continued solemnly. Sherlock swallowed slightly, as he felt his muscles tighten and his chest clench.

"Is that what you want?" he asked simply.

"No" she returned immediately, tapping her fingers gently upon her laptop. "No, it isn't."

"And yet, you are upset" he stated gently.

"I'm not upset" she responded instantly, lifting her gaze to meet his. "No, I just" she sighed, tilting her head back slightly before facing Sherlock once more. "He's a nice guy, you know? And perhaps for a while we were... I dunno. But towards the end it became clear that the most either of us were capable of feeling with each other was content. And that is not enough."

"No" Sherlock returned gently. "No, it's not."

"But he was... he's so sweet, and kind, and thoughtful. He deserves to be happy, and it took so little for him to smile, to laugh or seem happy. And he deserves to feel it. He really does."

"So do you, Watson" Sherlock returned with conviction. "And although you may not believe it, Andrew is probably dealing with similar feelings that you are currently experiencing. And by doing so, I'd wager he is being equally as remonstrative to himself." Joan sighed lightly, lowering her gaze as she stared at her fingertips and considered Sherlock's words. "And neither of you deserve to berate yourselves so much. At all, even" he continued, causing Joan to lift her head to face him. "You should never apologise for removing yourself from a situation that makes you unhappy. Certainly not if removing yourself from the situation decreases another person's pain too" he continued, watching as Joan leaned back in her seat and adopted a pensive expression. "And not wishing to place yourself back into that situation is something that you should be proud of yourself for, not ashamed." Joan swallowed, before nodding slightly and looking up towards him, her languid eyes meeting his kind and compassionate ones.

"Thank you" she breathed, offering him a small smile. He nodded in her direction. Before either of them could speak, Sherlock's phone began to ring in his pocket. He sighed and leaned to the side slightly as he extracted it, taking the call.

"Yes, Captain?" he asked, leaning back against the couch as he listened. "I believe we are making progress" he stated in a low tone, before raising his eyes to the ceiling and nodding as Gregson spoke. "Of course, yes, thank you" he responded, before hanging up the phone and turning back to Joan. "Captain Gregson is emailing me the files from the ten girls who have been abducted from the city and adjoining states in the past year. There are still some two dozen potential victims which Quantico are analysing, and Gregson will email me any potentially-related files as soon as he is able. The MO of each of the ten girls' disappearances has been linked to Dalton and his legion of pond-life associates" Sherlock declared, before skimming through the files on his phone.

Sherlock and Joan worked on the case throughout the day, with Sherlock splitting his time between narrowing down the potential list of Dalton's security officers and communicating with his London source and attempting to decrypt the files, whilst Joan looked into Catherine Adams and the ten girls whose disappearances had already been linked to Dalton. By nine o'clock that night, Sherlock had still failed to decrypt the files, the decryption key taking much longer than he had anticipated. He sighed in frustration, before sending yet another impatient and hastily-written text to his associate, whose credentials he was now beginning to doubt. _Perhaps Watson was right_ he mused, _maybe Dalton is not quite as stupid as I believed him to be_. With this thought Sherlock glanced towards Joan, who he was surprised to see had fallen asleep in the chair she occupied. Her glasses were in her left hand on her lap, and her legs were curled under her, as her head rested on her left arm upon the armrest. Sherlock watched her for a moment, before standing stiffly, and making his way into the den. He emerged a moment later with a thick white blanket, deciding that it was too cool for the blue one. He walked slowly towards Joan and knelt before her, removing her glasses gently from her hand. As he did so, he found his fingers lingering upon hers for slightly longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of her hand. He swallowed, before placing the glasses upon the table and wrapping the blanket securely across his partner. "Goodnight, Watson" he whispered, his eyes lingering upon her face as she slept. A few moments later he walked back to his previous position, sitting on the ground before the laptop, as he stared at the screen with a look of supreme discontent. His attention was only diverted from this by the now only-conscious companion he had, as Clyde walked slowly across the couch and nudged in to Sherlock's back.

"Ah, yes" Sherlock breathed, turning towards his shelled associate. "I expect you require food" he stated lightly, reaching onto the table and picking up one of the boxed salads Joan had arranged to have brought to the room. "How well she knows us" he stated, before opening the plastic lid and picking up the small black fork, passing Clyde the lettuce whilst he ate the rest.


	7. For Worse

A/N: Hi everyone :) Thanks for reading the last chapter, I hope you liked it. And thank you to everyone who wrote reviews, they are greatly appreciated. I have to say that I agree that there needs to be more contact/PDAs/intimacy between Sherlock on Joan. I think I kept it too subtle for the fear of it being unrealistic, but I completely agree that it needs to progress further. This chapter was not one I had intended on writing (the premise of Joan and the pool was something I was going to include, but briefly), and it will act as a 'gateway' chapter which will lead to them becoming more intimate (particularly in the coming chapters!).

As always, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and thank you for letting me know your thoughts/advice on the previous ones, it has certainly been taken on board. If you have any questions/requests/concerns/comments, please let me know :)

Thanks,

HQ21

The feeling of movement across her thigh and towards her stomach caused Joan to begin to stir from her previously uninterrupted slumber. As she slowly began to wake, Joan began to realise how uncomfortable her sleeping position was. Her neck was sore and her arm felt tender and heavy, and she slowly and gently eased herself into a sitting position, whilst subconsciously wrapping her free hand protectively across Clyde, who was clambering onto her lap.

"Morning, Watson" came the overly chipper voice of Sherlock Holmes, as he placed a steaming hot cup of coffee before her. The scent of the strong, dark liquid brought Joan quickly to full consciousness, and she leaned across to the table to pick it up, clasping it in her hands as she adjusted her position in the seat.

"Good morning" she mumbled tiredly, drawing the revitalising liquid to her lips. She slowly opened her eyes and glanced briefly across the room, her attention falling upon the two empty salad trays. "Did you give Clyde some salad last night?"

"After you fell asleep Clyde and I bonded over boxed salad, yes" Sherlock returned, leaning back into the couch as he spoke. "And shortly afterwards, I managed to make a fairly substantial breakthrough" he stated proudly. Joan lowered her mug slightly and looked up at Sherlock expectantly. "I was able to narrow down the list of potential security details for Mr Dalton and, based on the departure of four of the six remaining candidates, I feel quite certain that the men who Mr Dalton has guarding him are Joseph and Craig Lafferty, who occupy rooms on the eighth and ninth floors respectively" he stated simply, his tone and features heavy with animation. Joan sat up straighter in her chair, digging out her phone from down the side of the sofa and glancing at the time: it was just before eight o'clock in the morning.

"Did you sleep?" she asked gently.

"Occasionally, yes" he responded, his features alight with animation. "Not quite as much as you did, of course, but-" Before Sherlock could finish his sentence there was a sharp rapping at the door. Joan glanced towards it as Sherlock stood from the couch and walked across the room, squinting through the peep hole before opening the door. A few moments later, the familiar figure of Thomas entered the room, laden with a breakfast tray and two more boxed salads.

"Good morning" Joan greeted amiably, adjusting her legs under the blanket, as Thomas entered the room and Sherlock closed the door behind him.

"Morning, Miss Watson" he replied kindly.

"Please, call me Joan" she returned gently.

"Or Clara, if you wish to maintain our cover" Sherlock stated simply, in a tone which earned him a scowl from Joan.

"Is everything alright?" she asked Thomas, who watched Sherlock warily as he took up his previous position on the couch and picked up his laptop.

"Yeah" he replied, watching as Sherlock continued to type away on his laptop.

"We're having some trouble accessing some files" Joan stated by way of explanation. "Which is probably the reason for your lukewarm reception just now" she added, her voice rising slightly, causing Sherlock to turn to her briefly before facing Thomas.

"I apologise" Sherlock stated simply, gesturing briefly with his hand. "Would you care to sit down?"

"No, thank you" Thomas replied. "I can't stay long, I was only supposed to be bringing up the tray" he stated, before placing the tray upon the table before Sherlock. Joan glanced at the tray, which held two plates of Eggs Benedict, two glasses of orange juice and a cafetiere of freshly ground black coffee. To the far right of the tray was two boxes of freshly prepared salad, which Joan glanced upon gratefully, before picking one up and feeding Clyde with her hands. Thomas watched as Sherlock's eyes drifted towards Joan, watching her with a sombre and wistful expression. Thomas lowered his head slightly and smiled.

"I didn't want to interrupt your sleep or your work" he began, causing Joan and Sherlock to turn towards him with interest. "But I needed to talk to you both quickly, and this seemed like the best way" he explained, indicating towards the tray.

"It's okay" Joan returned, feeding Clyde another slice of cucumber as she gave Thomas a reassuring glance. "Has something happened?" Thomas nodded, before standing directly between the couch and the armchair, so he was between the two consultants.

"About an hour ago Jennifer Mandrea, the woman from Colombia who various intelligence agencies have linked with Dalton, checked into the hotel" he stated, watching as Sherlock eyed him with keen interest. "Before I had even picked up her cases she requested to make an appointment for a massage this morning at ten o'clock" he stated.

"Is that an unusual request?" Sherlock asked.

"Not usually" he replied. "But it is when you consider that Mr Dalton made the exact same request last night at eleven o'clock. I didn't realise until I checked the appointment logs to see if I could book in Miss Mandrea."

"So Dalton and Mandrea are having a massage at the same time this morning?" Joan asked, watching as Thomas nodded in response. "But they'll be in separate rooms and seen by different masseuses. How could they communicate?"

"Probably in the complementary sauna which follows each massage" Sherlock returned simply. Joan turned towards him with a puzzled expression, causing Sherlock to widen his eyes slightly and meet her gaze. "It was written down on the pamphlet Detective Bell flung before me in the Captain's office" he explained.

"The sauna is private and quiet. The people booked for the massages would not be interrupted. It would be a pretty good meeting spot" Thomas stated.

"Is Catherine Adams having a massage at that time too?" Joan asked.

"No" he began, shaking his head as he spoke. "But I did see her carrying a bag containing a recently-purchased bathing suit last night. So I guess it's possible she's gonna be using the pool whilst her employer and Miss Mandrea are having their rendezvous. Perhaps she is acting as a look out. The pool is in the centre of the hotel's spa, it would be an ideal place to watch over the people getting massages and saunas." The last sentence Thomas spoke was with a different tone, which immediately gained the attention of Sherlock, who looked up at him with a wary expression.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked simply. Thomas turned to Sherlock and met his gaze with confidence, before addressing his question.

"I think that given the fact that Dalton, Mandrea and Adams are all gonna be in the same place, it would make sense if you guys were there too" he responded in a simple yet respectful tone. "I'm on duty today, working with Leo in the spa area. So whilst I'll be able to keep an eye on things, I could easily get called away by a guest. And if Leo grows suspicious then my cover could be blown."

"You're right" Joan said. "You would be vulnerable if you were trying to work and monitor the meeting." Thomas nodded gratefully in response. "Sherlock, what do you think?" she asked gently, turning to her partner. Sherlock placed the laptop on the table and clasped his hands in his lap.

"I agree that Detective Reinhardt would be in a vulnerable and potentially dangerous position if he were to be caught" he returned simply. Joan watched him expectantly, her eyes studying his face as he sat in a silent and reflective state.

"But?" she asked after a few seconds of silence. Sherlock exhaled slightly, before lifting his head to meet her gaze.

"I do not think it necessary that all three of us are there" he stated simply to Joan. "The presence of either one of us down there would be more than adequate. It would also enable the other to search the rooms of the suspected security guards, who would almost certainly be downstairs at the time of the meeting" he stated simply, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "It is quite possible for us to achieve all of this without frolicking in the pool like tourists" he stated incredulously.

Joan pressed her lips together and nodded, finding herself feeling something similar to hurt, but for a reason she could not fathom.

"We wouldn't be frolicking in the pool, we'd be keeping eyes on the meeting" she began in a low and quiet tone which caused Sherlock to look towards her with a slightly guilty expression. "It will look odd if one of us is there alone, just sitting in the pool and casting occasional glances towards the massage or sauna areas. If we were together it would look like we are a couple who are exploring and looking for things to do in the hotel" she stated, watching Sherlock for a reaction. He seemed to be considering her words and creating a reply, when Thomas's voice drew their attention towards him.

"The honeymoon package includes access to the pool, spa and sauna" he began, looking from Joan to Sherlock as she spoke. "It's one of the main features of the hotel that attracts guests." Sherlock nodded absent-mindedly as he listened to Thomas's words, before looking towards Joan who was watching him with a patient expression.

"Very well" Sherlock stated gently, punctuating his acquiescence with a small sigh. "If they have booked the massages for ten o'clock, we should be in the pool by half-nine to avoid appearing suspicious."

"That gives us just over an hour to get ready" Joan stated, moving the blanket from her legs and standing from the couch, before carrying Clyde over to his carry case and placing him inside, accompanied by several pieces of lettuce and cucumber.

Sherlock watched as Joan leaned over the carry case to feed Clyde, and immediately observed how her features tightened slightly and her eyes adopted a sad expression. From her body language and the tone of her voice earlier he could tell that he had hurt her feelings with his initial reluctance to spend time in the pool with her. He felt his previous guilt magnify as she swept some hair from her face and turned to face himself and Thomas, forcing herself to appear more content and confident than she felt. He had not meant to upset her, and his reasons for not wishing to go to the pool with her was not because he did not wish to spend time with her there, but because he was surprised by just how much the idea did appeal to him. And whilst that confused him, it also troubled him. It was undeniable that, during the course of their current investigation, he and Joan had absolved some of the unspoken vows they had made in relation to their partnership, mainly involving physical contact. Over the past couple of days they had adopted a more casual and almost romantic approach to their physical closeness and intimacy. Although their physical encounters had been limited to holding hands, placing their hands on each other's backs, or standing closer to one another than before, there was something incredibly intimate and almost dangerous about it. The fact that these brief encounters were never directly addressed or spoken about also added to the confusion, with both Sherlock and Joan often wondering whether they had ever happened at all. At first he had told himself that it was due to their cover story, and that feigning marriage to Watson would require some levels of physical closeness. But after a while the lingering glances and tender contact became much more difficult to simply explain away. And as Sherlock sat looking up at Joan, who was speaking to Thomas as he processed his thoughts, he found his eyes travelling nervously to her face, as the desire to hold more than her hand entered his mind.

"Sherlock?" Joan called, causing the consultant to emerge from his thoughts instantly. "What do you think?"

"I'm sorry?" he returned instantly, his eyes meeting Joan's and holding her gaze, as she looked upon him with a quizzical expression.

"Thomas says that the store room between the bar and the sauna could provide an ideal place to listen to the conversation inside the sauna" she began, watching as Sherlock swallowed and nodded as she spoke. "We could wait until we saw them go into the sauna, then you could go to the bar, head into the room and listen, before coming back to the pool with some drinks."

"I'll be by the bar or pool, so I can talk to you by the store room and lead you towards it. It'll just look like I'm showing you part of the hotel, and no one will think much of it" Thomas added, glancing from Joan to Sherlock.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked as he looked up towards Joan.

"I'll stay in the pool and keep an eye on the sauna and on anyone who could be watching you" she returned gently. "Catherine Adams may be nearby, so I'll be on the lookout for her." Sherlock watched Joan for a moment before nodding in agreement.

"Of course" Sherlock stated, before pushing himself up from the couch and turning towards Thomas. "Thank you, Detective" he stated amiably as he extended his hand. Joan watched in confusion as Thomas placed his hand into Sherlock's and shook it heartily, nodding once before retracting his hand. Thomas nodded, offering a few words of goodbye to his associates, before leaving the room, with Joan closing the door behind him. She slowly removed her hand from the door and turned towards Sherlock, who was watching her intently.

"Sherlock?" she asked, narrowing her eyes in confusion as she spoke. His glance lingered upon her for a moment, and his attention was only removed from his racing yet fragmented thoughts as she took a few slow steps towards him.

"We should get ourselves ready for our task" he stated simply, pressing his lips together and nodding, before turning on the spot and checking on his laptop. His already present confusion and frustration was only increased by the fact that the software he had installed was still not decrypting the files. Joan watched Sherlock for a few moments, before walking slowly towards him, the cold floor tingling her feet.

"Sherlock, can we talk?" she asked gently. Sherlock's fingers hovered over his laptop for a moment, before he stood up straight in an awkward and almost robotic manner, before turning to face her. He wore an unreadable and almost impassive expression as he faced her, but inside, his heart and mind were racing.

"Of course" he returned simply. Joan nodded, before taking a single step towards him and beginning to speak.

"Look, I... I didn't mean to ambush you back there, okay?" she began, her tone soft and gentle. Sherlock felt himself relaxing slightly as she spoke, and his breathing became lighter as he listened to her intently, waiting patiently for her to continue. "I know that spending time with me in a pool whilst watching the subjects of our investigation is probably not too high on your list of priorities. But the fact is that we need to keep tabs on them, that's why we're here. And we can't just lock ourselves away in this room all day, and rely solely on covertly breaking into their rooms and studying them from across the ballroom. Going down into the hotel's facilities would maintain our cover story whilst allowing us to do precisely what we came here to do" she stated. Sherlock had not responded verbally or physically to her statements, but was standing still and patiently listening to and considering her words. Joan glanced briefly across his face, searching for any signs of disagreement or discomfort, but she found none. "But regardless of that" she continued in a gentle and almost hesitant tone. "I don't want you to feel... uncomfortable" she began, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed in confusion as he rose his head slightly and met her gaze. "But I promise there will be no _frolicking_ of any kind" she stated lightly, watching as Sherlock's eyes lowered briefly, before rising once more and meeting her gaze as he nodded. She had noticed that, since Thomas made the suggestion, Sherlock had become slightly tense and uncertain. Although she did not understand why, she wondered whether it could be because he did not feel comfortable with spending time with her when they were partially exposed, both physically and professionally. Although she found herself faulting the logic of this argument each time she thought it over, she could not find any other reason for him to appear so averse to the issue.

"I assure you, Watson" he began in a gentle tone, "the last thing I feel is uncomfortable". Joan looked up at Sherlock as he spoke, her eyes wide and sparkling. She nodded slightly and became visibly relaxed.

"Are you sure?" she asked gently.

"Quite" he stated, nodding with conviction. "We are both grown adults who lived together for almost two years. I'm sure we can handle seeing each other in bathing suits." Joan smiled, laughing slightly as she sighed.

"Okay then" she returned, holding his gaze for a moment longer than necessary. "I'm going to go get ready." Sherlock nodded in response, before turning on the spot and heading into his den. Joan lingered on the spot for a moment, before walking into the bedroom and closing the doors behind her.

Fifteen minutes later Joan secured her hair with a few last-minute clips, before placing a medium-sized brimmed hat upon her head. She then placed a few towels and some spare clothes into a large bag which she swung over her shoulder, before heading into the lounge. As she entered the room Sherlock rose from his seat, placing the laptop upon the table as he did so, before staring directly at her.

Joan was wearing a black dress of light, floaty material which revealed her silhouette. Her hair was plaited and held up in a neat and practical manner, which complemented the minimal make up and plumb-shade of lipstick she wore. She looked radiant.

"I don't recall ever seeing you in flat shoes, Watson" Sherlock stated simply. "Even your running shoes have a very slight lift." Joan smiled lightly at the comment as she looked at his own outfit. Sherlock was wearing a plain white shirt and khaki green three-quarter length trousers, with the brown sneakers she hadn't seen in about a year. "I feel notably under-dressed" he stated, raising his arms slightly.

"You're fine" she smiled in a kind and placating manner. "Are you ready?" Sherlock nodded in response before indicating towards the door. Joan turned on the spot and opened the door, holding it open for Sherlock as he passed through. Shortly after the door closed shut behind them, she felt his hand drift lightly up her back and rest upon her. Through the thinness of the material and the tightness of her bathing suit, it felt almost as though Sherlock's hand was touching her bare skin. Joan let out a shaking breath as she felt the warmth of his hand pressed protectively against her skin. Sherlock turned towards her as he felt her breathing change slightly, and soon their steps fell in line with one another as they walked towards the elevator.

Joan felt the warmth from his touch resonate throughout her whole body as they walked together into the elevator, her whole body tingling at the slight yet sensual touch. As the doors closed behind them and the elevator began to descend, Sherlock felt Joan edge ever so slightly closer to him, the soft material of her dress grazing his arm, as her hair brushed against his shoulder. As the elevator continued to move the scent of Joan's shampoo swam in the air, providing Sherlock with the calming scent he often associated with his partner. As he studied her for a few moments, the pleasant meditative expression upon her face, she sensed his eyes upon her, and turned slowly towards him. As the elevator pinged and the doors opened, Sherlock and Joan were stood, sides pressed together, his hand on her lower back, their gazes fixed and their bodies unmoving. The busy sound of the bustling from the hotel lobby did not rouse them from their thoughts, but as the elevator doors began to close once more, Sherlock reached out a hand a prevented them from joining, pushing one back as he broke their mutual gaze, and Joan stepped out into the lobby. Sherlock's hand soon returned to her lower back, and they walked together into the spa rooms.

As they entered the large double doorway which led into the spa areas, Sherlock and Joan decreased their casual walking pace as they looked around at their surroundings. To their right was a large pool with risen areas and a small jacuzzi. There were lines of wicker and white-cushioned chairs and tables which surrounded the pool, and were occupied by three or four people. To the left were the individually marked massage rooms, with the sauna situated at the far end, and tables and chairs filling the nearby space. Along the back wall was a large bar, with glistening surfaces and a dozen black bar stools.

"Wow" breathed Joan, sighing as she looked around. "I can definitely see the appeal of this place" she continued, placing her hand on the rim of her hat, which she moved up so she could get a better view of the room.

"Yes" replied Sherlock. "And at this early time in the morning there are not too many fellow guests around. Given that only half a dozen or so people are actually in here at the moment, they would probably have gotten away with hosting their covert meeting at the bar." Joan smiled slightly at this remark, before walking towards a pair of chairs near the pool, removing her hat and bag and placing them upon the adjourning table.

Sherlock walked a few paces behind Joan, watching as she calmly and confidently began to arrange her belongings by the pool. Sherlock stopped just behind her, as she rummaged through her bag and began to remove bottled water and towels. As she did so, Sherlock quickly removed his trousers and shirt, which he tossed carelessly over the back of one of the chairs. The movements and presence of the clothes attracted Joan's attention instantly, and she turned around to find herself facing Sherlock, who was standing in his dark blue swimming shorts just a foot or so behind her. Her eyes scanned his body briefly, resting upon his taut chest for a few moments, before rising to his face. His eyes were wide and pensive as she looked up at him, smiling briefly before turning back towards the chair, reaching her hands up her back and searching for the zip. After a few moments of struggling, partly due to the positioning of the zip but mainly due to the distracting sight of her partner behind her, she felt Sherlock take a few steps closer to her, his breath upon her ear as he spoke.

"Allow me" he stated gently, before placing one hand on her shoulder and the other upon her own as he reached for the zip, which he slowly dragged down. Joan turned her head to the right as she felt his hand lower itself from her shoulder and travel down with the zip, before his hands left her body, and she felt the fabric loosen as it fell over her shoulders. Sherlock took a few steps back as Joan placed her hands upon the shoulders of the fabric, before pulling it over her shoulders and allowing the dress to fall to the ground. She then turned around, revealing a modest yet complementary strapless black one-piece, as she faced Sherlock. They watched each other for a few moments, as the remnants of their recent touches lingered upon their bodies. As they watched each other in the silence, Joan considered the contact they had shared since leaving their room, and mused at how it seemed to begin when they closed the suite door and end when they were back on the other side of it.

Joan found herself feeling slightly dejected at the thought that such actions and displays of tenderness were part of the 'show', part of their cover. But as she considered their actions since the elevator, it seemed to her that this was not a satisfying explanation. She remembered his hand upon her back, and how she responded by getting closer to him. She then remembered how he placed his hands upon her and helped him with her dress, as she leaned in to his touch. It was although they were testing each other, seeing which forms of contact were permissible. Sherlock would always instigate the contact, which was typically to place his hand on her lower back in a chivalrous and protective gesture. Joan had reached out for him the night before, and then they had held hands, exploring each other's palms with their fingertips. That had marked the beginning of Joan responding to his initial touches, which now appeared to be developing even further. And now they stood just inches apart, their eyes holding the gaze of the other as they attempted to navigate through the confusion and uncertainty of the implications of their current conduct. It was a question neither of them knew the answer to, a mystery which was still yet to be solved. Before either of them could speak or consider their situation further, the dull buzzing of Joan's phone drew them from their thoughts.

"I'll meet you in the pool" Sherlock breathed lightly, walking past her and towards the tiled edge. Joan swallowed and nodded briefly, before turning towards her bag, rifling through it until she found her phone, which she answered.

Sherlock walked swiftly to the edge of the pool, lowering himself down the steps and into the refreshingly cool water. His heart was racing and he felt overcome by a tingly and almost prickly heat, which abated slightly once the water began to soothe his skin. He walked down the steel steps and leaned against the back of the pool, glancing once towards Watson, who was standing to the side with the phone pressed to her ear. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, as he struggled to understand the nature of the physical contact he and Joan had been sharing. As he thought about it, he found that he had perfect recollection of every touch, every glance and every gentle caress. He found the warm tingling sensation that was overcoming his body return to him once more, as he found his mind lost in a maze of confusion. As he found his breathing returning to normal and his body begin to relax, his concentration was broken by a clumsy waiter to his left, who spilled half a pitcher of orange juice upon the tiles beside the pool. Sherlock allowed his eyes to befall the liquid, as the clearly put-out waiter rushed away towards the cleaning cupboard at the back of the room. Sherlock then leaned back against the cool tiles at the back of the pool, and focused his attention on Thomas and Leo, who were smiling together behind the bar. Thomas laughed, made some comments and a brief gesture, before slapping Leo on the back in a friendly manner, before they both burst out laughing. Sherlock turned from the scene to watch the elderly couple at the table closest to the bar, who were dressed in white robes and holding hands across the table, as they shared some fresh coffee. Sherlock's attention was only drawn from the scene by the sound of Joan's voice, as she spoke to a waiter. Sherlock turned to the side and watched as she shared a brief word with Thomas, who smiled and nodded in response, before Joan returned his smile and began walking towards the pool. Sherlock turned his head from her approaching figure and glanced once more towards the bar. As he did so, he saw the clumsy-looking waiter he noticed earlier, who was now laden with a bucket and mop, and locking the cupboard behind him. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he pushed himself up from his crouching position as he turned towards Joan, who was just inches away from the wet and sticky juice which had been spilled across the tiles.

"No" he mumbled, turning to the side and moving to the edge of the pool where Joan was about to stand. Before he could get to her, Joan stepped onto the wet tiles, her foot sliding forward slightly as she began to fall forwards. A small gasp escaped her lips as she began to fall towards the water, but as she hovered across the edge of the pool, she felt a pair of familiar hands grasping her tightly at the waist, and pulling her towards him.

Sherlock grabbed Joan's waist and drew her into the pool, holding her tightly as he pulled her body towards his own, as her began to lower her down into the water. Joan's initial shock at the unexpected and sudden nature of her near-accident was written across her face. Her eyes were wide, her lips were parted and she appeared to be slightly breathless. Her hands held Sherlock's biceps tightly, tense with clenched fingers, as her bent legs became immersed in the water. The cool water soothed her, and she found herself recovering from the initial shock and confusion of the incident, from her fall to being caught by her partner, who was holding her steadily in the water, lowering her body so it was pressed against his, as he watched her intently. For a few moments, as the water covered her hips, her stomach and then her chest, she found the tension in her limbs dissipating as she blinked herself out of her temporary stupor. Joan's arms slowly relaxed, and she released her grip upon Sherlock's arms, as she rose her head and offered him an apologetic look.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, his voice nervous and breathless. Joan lifted her head for a moment, her eyes meeting his under the artificial lights above them, as his hands pressed firmly against her waist, holding her steady.

"Ma'am!" called a desperate voice from the side. Joan and Sherlock turned immediately towards the voice, which came from the clumsy waiter who had spilled the juice in the first place. "Ma'am, are you okay?" Joan nodded in response, before turning to Sherlock, who was watching her with a nervous expression.

"I'm fine" she breathed, her features softening as she gave him a small reassuring smile. Sherlock's eyes darted across her face, before glancing across her body and back to her eyes, where he held her gaze.

"Are you certain?" he asked, as the nervous-looking waiter began to mop up the spilled juice.

"Yes" she returned, her voice sounding less shaky and uncertain than it did previously. "Fortunately I landed on something soft." Sherlock smirked briefly, before his features tightened and he adopted his trademark stoic, impassive expression.

"You're not hurt?" he asked.

"I'm not hurt" she reassured him, as she felt his ribs beneath her fingertips. Joan's fingers lingered upon his skin for a moment, until the tension which left her body allowed them to relax even more. As she found herself able to process what had just happened, she was suddenly aware of the closeness of their current position. Although she was leaning back slightly, her hands were pressed to his arms, her stomach tight to his own, as her knee grazed his inner leg beneath the water. Amongst all the physical contact, she felt his gentle breaths against her cheek, as he continued to hold her steady. Suddenly, she found herself overcome by a feeling of inexplicable nervousness and fear, and the unfamiliarity of his hands upon her, their bodies pressed together, caused her great concern. The boundaries that needed to be bent in order to facilitate the success of their cover story appeared to be being eroded completely. She blinked herself out of her reverie, and began to slowly adjust her position in the water, before beginning to disentangle herself from him completely. Her fingers splayed upon his skin, before drifting down his arms in a single motion, landing in the cool water. Sherlock complied with her clear request, removing his hands from her and moving back a pace, as the water rippled between them.

Sherlock felt instantly cool without her touch. But before he could process this information, his attention was drawn to the arrival of Dalton, Mandrea and Adams, who walked directly towards the massage rooms, closing the dark wooden doors behind them.

"They've arrived" Sherlock breathed, his eyes focused on the doors, as Joan tilted her head around to follow his gaze, her body still facing his. As she looked, she saw the approaching figure of Thomas, who made eye contact with Sherlock for a moment, before walking past them without further acknowledgement. "Adams is having a massage too, so she must be in on the meeting" he added, his voice low and husky. "Thomas is heading back towards the bar" he began, before lowering his face so his eyes were locked with Joan's. "I'll go into the room next to the sauna and await their arrival. Will you be alright here?"

"Of course" she stated absent-mindedly, glancing from Sherlock and towards the bar. Sherlock's eyes drifted over her, as if to search for a hidden injury or signs of one. He found nothing. Without a word, Sherlock waded through the water and made his way towards the ladder, pulling himself from the pool and picking up a complementary white robe from his chair, which he wrapped around himself as he walked across the room and towards the bar. The humour of the image of Sherlock in such a robe would have been appreciated by Joan, had she not been in a confused and dream-like state. Everything had happened so quickly and without warning, that she found herself still coming to terms with it. She hadn't seen the spilled liquid on the floor, but perfectly recalled the stilling of her heart and the panic which resonated throughout her body and coursed through her veins. She also recalled how, as soon as she felt Sherlock's hands upon her, and her body pressed against his amongst the cool water, the panic ceased. Instantly. The feel of his hands upon her sent shock-waves throughout her body, and her entire being tingled and radiated with warmth.

Joan breathed in deeply as she recalled this, wading through the water and leaning against the back of the pool as she kept watch over the separate massage booths. She focused intently on this spot, banishing all other thoughts or memories as she gazed upon the identical dark-wooden doors. The first door opened after ten minutes, the second after twelve, and the third one three minutes after that. Each of the individuals inside headed straight for the sauna, where they remained for just under five minutes, before leaving one minute apart. After she watched them leave through the double doors, Joan pressed her back against the cold tiles of the pool, leaned back against the water, and closed her eyes. It was only then that she allowed the memories of the events of the past few minutes return to her, playing over and over again in her mind, as her body tingled with the recollection of the feeling of his hands upon her body. She found herself breathing in deeply, due to a combination of excitement and panic, as she remembered the look of concern in his eyes as he looked over her body.

Joan's eyes snapped open as she banished these memories once more, and she found herself drawn to the edge of the pool, where Sherlock was standing with two tall glasses. He knelt by the side of the pool and wordlessly passed her a glass, which she accepted, taking a few tentative sips before placing it upon the edge of the pool. Sherlock reached out his free hand to Joan as she moved towards the ladder. She placed one hand upon the ladder and clasped his tightly with her free hand, allowing him to pull her from the water with a slow yet strong movement, as her gaze remained firmly upon the ground.

"Thank you" she said kindly, turning her head to face him with a small smile. He nodded in response, and watched as she slowly made her way over to their table, pulling on her robe and gathering her things. Sherlock took a small sip of his drink before placing it on the table and picking up his own items, which he carried as he walked with Joan towards the two double-doors.

"We can talk upstairs" he whispered. She nodded briefly in response, adjusting her hold on her bag as she reached the elevator, pressing the button and glancing up at the red changing numbers. The elevator pinged open and they passed through instantly, standing beside each other once more. As the doors closed slowly behind them, Joan found herself wondering whether the conversation he was referring to was based on the case or the incident in the pool.

As the elevator doors closed and the consultants were transported to their room, the man who watched them on their first night walked slowly from the pool room, standing tall in the doorway before walking into the foyer. He pulled out his phone and dialled the familiar number, before pressing it lightly to his ear.

"Sir?" he asked, as the recipient picked up on the second ring. "He was in the supply room at the back of the bar" the voice said, adopting a low and grave tone. "No, no sir I-" the voice began, before being cut off by the irate and slightly panicked voice on the other end. "He couldn't have sir, no. And if he has, we have leverage" he said in a simple and almost casual manner. After a few seconds of pause, the man nodded into his phone, before smiling arrogantly as he rose his head. "If he has, we should be able to get to him through his weak spot" he explained simply, smiling lightly as he spoke. "Joan Watson."


	8. For Richer

A/N: Hi everyone, thank you for reading the last chapter, and thanks to everyone who reviewed. Some of you have observed how, in my work, I often place Joan in danger, and that it is perhaps Sherlock's turn. I completely agree with you, and I'm sorry if my stories have seemed a bit monotonous of formulaic. I think I write in that way because in the show and in the texts, Sherlock's humanity and care for Joan is displayed so clearly when she is in danger, which humanises him and his feelings for Joan whilst highlighting his vulnerability. This happens in the texts too. For instance, in 'The Three Garridebs', Watson is shot, and Sherlock's reaction is truly heart-warming. I guess I was hoping to replicate that. But at the same time, I don't want to keep writing the same thing, so thanks for bringing it to my attention :) I have edited the end slightly in my plans, so that this story will feature them both being in dangerous situations (Joan first and Sherlock towards the end of the text, in a slightly more dramatic ending than I had in mind). If you are interested, after this story I could write a one-shot of Sherlock being injured/hurt/in danger and Joan coming to his aid?

Also, thank you to phaedraphelan for bringing my grammar to my attention. I'll proof-read more vigorously and try to end any such mistakes. Thank you :)

Thanks again for reading and reviewing. I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, any thoughts/comments/criticisms/advice are greatly appreciated.

Thanks,

HQ21

Sherlock and Joan walked together in silence until they reached the elevator, which pinged gently as the doors opened wide. As always, Sherlock guided her in with some gentle pressure from his hand, which was currently pressed lightly against her lower back. As Joan stepped into the elevator first, Sherlock hand lowered slightly and his gaze fell to her feet, watching as she appeared to be placing pressure solely on the tips of her toes on her right foot as she walked. He frowned slightly as he joined her in the elevator, his eyes falling to her feet once more.

"Are you alright, Watson?" he asked gently, his attention drifting from her feet to her face.

"Yeah" she breathed. "My ankle's a little sore, that's all. I'm fine though, I just need to sit down for a bit."

"Of course" Sherlock returned instantly, moving slightly closer to her as he continued to stare at her feet, as if he could remove her pain by glaring at her foot in an imposing and authoritative manner. Joan smiled lightly at the thought.

The elevator doors slowly opened as they reached their floor, and Sherlock slowed his walking pace as he gently guided Joan towards their door. As they walked into the room, Joan stepped away from his touch and headed towards the lounge area, putting her bag by the side of the armchair before easing herself onto the seat. She pushed herself down into the cushioned seat before crossing her leg across her lap and examining her foot. She pressed her fingers lightly to the back of her foot, before running her fingers across her foot and ankle in an exploratory manner. Sherlock walked slowly towards her as she did so, his eyes drifting from her foot to the look of intelligence and concentration on her face.

"It's fine" Joan stated confidently, lowering her foot from her lap and leaning back into the seat. "I'll keep the weight off it for a couple hours and it'll be alright" she added, adjusting herself on the seat as Sherlock stood watching her from a few feet away. "Which means we have plenty of time to discuss what you overheard in the sauna." Sherlock continued to watch her with an expression of mingled concern and concentration, before nodding once and walking towards the couch opposite her, which he sat upon as he looked up towards her.

"Of course" he began, nodding as he spoke. "What about your phone call?"

"I'm sorry?" she asked, looking up from her foot as she spoke. "Oh, yeah, of course" she continued, closing her eyes as she began to recall the phone call she received before entering the pool. "It was Captain Gregson, he said he had four more potential victims from New York and adjourning states, whose files he would be sending to me" she stated, reaching for her bag and searching for her phone. "I still have three of the ten others to go through first, but I'll make this my priority" she continued, pulling up the email in question and confirming that documents were attached, before placing the phone upon the table. "So what happened in the sauna?" she asked, turning towards Sherlock.

"They were in there for just over five minutes, and whilst I did not hear everything they spoke about, I was able to discern some information" he began, clasping his hands in his lap as he spoke. "Dalton was talking to the others, and explained that their 'American associate' would be meeting with them tonight to discuss what he so sickeningly described as 'the American merchandise'" Joan shuddered slightly at the use of the term, her chest rising as she inhaled deeply, before nodding in understanding and waiting for him to continue. "He told the other members of his vile group to meet in the restaurant this evening, where a Masquerade Ball will apparently being hosted for a local children's charity". It was clear that Sherlock found the thought of them hijacking such a worthy cause to discuss the buying of kidnapped young women absolutely abhorrent, a view which Joan shared completely. "I spoke to Thomas after they left the sauna. He confirmed that there was such an event being hosted here tonight. Unfortunately for us, the guest list is not exclusive to individuals currently staying in the hotel. Although all current patrons are able to attend, some one-hundred tickets were sold to various individuals who will also be coming tonight."

"Which means our suspect pool for this American guy just got a lot bigger" Joan sighed. "It may not be someone in the hotel as we originally assumed, but a guest who will be coming tonight then leaving soon after. People are gonna be talking to each other all night long, it will be very difficult to figure out exactly who this guy is, and to trace him afterwards" she continued, her mind whirring as she attempted to think of a solution, as the pain in her foot provided an unwelcome distraction.

"Quite" Sherlock agreed. "Therefore, I believe we should take covert photographs of individuals who approach Dalton and his associates. We can send them to Gregson who will be able to circulate them to various other agencies, which should lead to their identification. Once we have gathered their names and details, we will be able to begin eliminating suspects."

"That feels like all we've been doing" Joan sighed, as Sherlock rose his face and looked upon her with a confused expression. "Eliminated people, instead of identifying them." She exhaled deeply, her fingertips running over the material on the arm of her chair as Sherlock clasped his hands before him and began to speak.

"The initial part of the investigation was bound to be slow and rather frustrating, Watson" he began, speaking in a calm and gentle manner. "Matters such as this often are. But we have only been here for a few days, and we have made significant progress. We have identified some of the people involved and their security, we know when the next meeting will take place, and we will be ready and able to investigate them further." Joan sighed deeply, leaning back in her chair and nodding, before turning back towards Sherlock.

"I'm just worried that we are using up time these girls just don't have" she returned. "And we still don't know who the American guy is who, by the sound of it, is their captor."

"If tonight goes according to plan, Watson, as I have ever confidence it will do" he began, watching her with a warm and placating expression. "Then we will be one step closer to both identifying the man in question, and locating the missing girls." Joan nodded slowly as she processed his words. He was right, of course. But that didn't make it any easier to accept. And it certainly didn't mean that the fourteen girls who had been kidnapped in the past year, as well as the dozens of others whose fates were as yet unknown, were any closer to being found. "And until that time" Sherlock stated, springing up from his position on the couch, "we should continue with the work which we have been undertaking so far" he stated, gesturing to their laptops. "If you continue processing the files on the missing women, trying to identify any clues as to how they were taken or who their kidnapper was, I will install the new software sent to me by my MI6 contact. I received his email whilst we were downstairs" he stated, before moving eagerly towards his laptop and signing in. "He seems fairly certain that this latest programme will fare much better than the previous." Joan nodded in agreement, before reaching across for her laptop and continuing her work. Sherlock watched as Joan typed away on her laptop, staring at the screen as she scrolled through the online files.

"Whilst the latest software is installing itself and attempting to decrypt the files" Sherlock began, lifting his laptop from his lap and placing it beside him on the couch. "I will text Thomas and request that he sends me the guest list for tonight's event. I will attempt to narrow down the suspect list immediately, and flag up any individuals who we should pay particular attention to this evening" he stated, staring at his phone as he typed out and sent the message.

"Good idea" mumbled Joan in response, as she made notes on the latest victim file, a young woman in her early twenties who she too believed was a victim of the same person.

Sherlock and Joan worked into the late afternoon, the silence of the room filled with the gentle tapping of keys and occasional questions or statements from both consultants. The only time that their attention had been removed from their work was when Thomas had knocked on their door, entering their suite with matching black and silver masks for the consultants. Joan looked at them both appraisingly, admiring the detail and softness of the black velvet, as Sherlock stared athis as though he sincerely believed it would burn through his palm, an expression which amused both Thomas and Joan.

In that time, Joan managed to go over the three files she had left, and ran out of time before looking into the new ones sent by Gregson. Sherlock used the time to run the decryption programme which appeared to be working. It would take several hours before the files were actually readable, but it was a start, and he valued the fact that progress was being made. In the meantime, he occupied himself by narrowing down the guest list in his search for the individual who was known only by his nationality and gender but whom, according to the fragments of the discussion he overheard in the sauna, knew the location of the girls who had gone missing in and around New York in the past year and a half. There were ninety-eight names on the list that Thomas sent him. He was able to exclude forty-seven who were female, but narrowing it down further was more problematic, given the relatively little information they had on the mysterious American. However, he did manage to look into the background of several individuals on the list, and some flags were raised. Five men had drug-related previous criminal convictions, two men on the list had priors for solicitation, and another two had been investigated on domestic violence based on the claims of their partners. Sherlock sighed in frustration as he considered what an ill-suited medley of individuals appeared to be attending a charity event that evening. As he looked deeper into the people on the list, one name stood out more than others: Jeffrey Lennox, a former associate of Douglas Dalton. Sherlock recognised the name immediately, and after some cursory research he realised that Dalton and Lennox had both graduated from the same college in the same year, and his name had come up in Dalton's file on several occasions. Sherlock pulled up the man's picture, as well as pictures of three or four other individuals of interest, and showed them to Joan. They studied the faces for several minutes, taking pictures and saving them to their phones before glancing at the time. It was five-thirty, and the Masquerade Ball began at half-six.

"We should get ready" said Joan, placing her laptop on the table as she eased herself out of her sitting position. "How's your decryption software handling the files?"

"Not as well as I'd have hoped" Sherlock returned sombrely, pushing his laptop back slightly as he stood tall before the couch. "Although it has decrypted fifty-eight per cent of the files so far. At this rate they should be legible by the early hours of the morning" he stated tiredly, placing his face in his hands as he rubbed his forehead. "Which is something, I suppose."

"It's progress" Joan soothed, as she took a few cautious steps towards her bedroom.

"Is your foot alright?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head to the side slightly as he spoke.

"Fine, thanks" Joan responded, before walking into her bedroom and closing the doors behind her. Sherlock nodded slightly as he lifted his head from his hands and walked briskly towards his den.

Thirty minutes later both Sherlock and Joan were dressed and ready for the evening's event. Sherlock wore a smart dinner suit with a black tie, and Joan wore a figure-hugging black gown with a matching clutch bag and shoes, which she teamed with silver jewellery and accessories. She wore her hair down, with loose curled neatly arranged upon her neck. Sherlock watched as she walked slowly into the lounge area, and found himself standing from his position on the couch as she entered. At that moment even Clyde, who had been tugging gently at the lettuce which Sherlock held in his fingers, stilled in the consultant's hand.

"You look quite lovely, Watson" Sherlock stated simply, nodding as he spoke. Joan smiled politely in response, her eyes drifting from Sherlock's eyes to the tortoise in his hands, as she marvelled at how natural their pose was, and how well Clyde seemed to fit in with Sherlock's own image.

"It's a shame Clyde can't join us" Joan sighed, as she walked across the room and picked up her phone from the table, depositing it safely in her clutch bag.

"Can he not?" Sherlock asked simply, lowering his head as he glanced upon the creature in his hand. "I rather think Clyde would make an admirable camera-man, do you not, Watson?" he asked, turning towards his partner, who was walking towards him with a look of disbelief and gentle chiding mingled within her features. "I thought I'd secure a camera to his back and send him towards the table in question. We could have footage and sound" he stated, nodding slightly as he glanced down at the tortoise once more. His glance was broken when Joan walked briskly towards him, gently removed Clyde from his grasp, and carried him back towards his carry case.

"As innovative as that idea is" she began, her voice rising slightly at the end as she turned from the carry case to face Sherlock, "it's hardly very practical. Besides" she continued, taking a step towards Sherlock and meeting his gaze. "You would never put Clyde in such danger."

"Clyde is a member of the team, Watson" Sherlock returned immediately. "He understands the risks and he accepts them, as do you and I" he stated, gesturing slightly with his hands as he spoke. Joan nodded once, before walking towards him as she continued to speak.

"For tonight our team-mate turtle can be a guard dog, okay?" she said, smiling slightly as she walked past him and picked up the masks from the back of the couch, handing Sherlock's to him. "Are you going to put it on?" she asked, pressing her own to her eyes as she secured it at the back. Sherlock gave her an incredulous look as he held the mask by its corner, as if physical contact with the item physically pained him.

"It's not my colour" he stated dismissively, tossing the mask onto the couch. Joan sighed, before retrieving the mask and walking towards Sherlock.

"It's like getting a child to put their coat on when it's raining" she mumbled, pausing and looking up at him as she stood just a few inches from him, the tips of their shoes almost touching. "Will you please put it on? Just for a while. You can take it off after an hour or so."

"An hour?" he asked incredulously, his eyes widening and his head lowering slightly as he spoke.

"Long enough to establish our cover" she explained, holding the mask up slightly. Sherlock sighed in feigned annoyance, before nodding once and facing her directly. She smiled in satisfaction, before taking a step closer to him and assisting him with the mask.

Through his feigned annoyance, Sherlock's breathing quickened and his heart rate increased as he felt Joan's fingers brushing lightly against the nape of his neck, his hair and his cheek as she assisted him with his mask. Sherlock closed his eyes as he attempted to block out the sensual and pleasurable emotions that the gentle and tender contact caused him. Joan's eyes flickered up and watched as he closed his eyes, breathing in and out slowly for a few moments, before opening his eyes wide once more and staring past her towards the doorway. After ensuring the mask was secure Joan lowered her hands slowly and took a step back, before turning towards the door and heading towards it. She could hear Sherlock's gentle footsteps behind her as he followed her through the door and towards the elevator, which pinged open before them once more. Once inside the elevator Sherlock moved slightly closer to Joan, their bodies less than an inch apart but somehow not touching. Despite this, they were both surprised to find themselves feeling something strange, something inexplicable as the elevator carried them to the ground floor. Although their bodies were not touching, there was a level of draw or tension in the small space which was almost palpable. It was electrifying. It caused their hearts to race and their minds to whir in a mixture of confusion and uncertainty, as they each battled the unfamiliar thoughts which were flooding into their consciousness. The desire to move closer, to make physical contact. Even if their sides were t brush slightly, and just for a moment, they felt as though it would ignite something within them, some iridescent and ever-burning energy which needed to be sated. After a few moments, Joan turned slowly towards Sherlock, her eyes rising to meet his. As if sensing the weight of her stare upon him, Sherlock turned to the side less than a moment later, and found himself gazing into her dark eyes, which bore a strange and unusual expression. Her cheeks were flushed and chest was rising and falling quickly, as her lips parted slightly to allow a small breath to be released. And then the elevator doors opened.

Joan turned from Sherlock instantly, but before she could take a step into the bustling foyer, she felt the edge of his arm nudge lightly against her. She felt her breath still as she turned quickly towards him, her eyes lowering themselves and resting upon the arm he was offering her. She looked back up to his face, her eyes meeting his for just a moment, and then she accepted. Joan wove her arm carefully through his, her forearm resting comfortably against his own as he tightened his grip slightly, causing their bodies to become pressed closer and tighter together, as he lead her into the restaurant.

The restaurant, which now lived up to its official title of 'ballroom', was quite different to the last time Sherlock and Joan had entered it. There were silver, white and black balloons throughout the room, which was alight with crystal chandeliers and tall vanilla candles. The tables were arranged slightly closer together than usual, and the expensive tablecloths were adorned with multi-coloured flowers, elaborate place settings and silver confetti. An accomplished pianist was accompanied by three or four individuals playing various instruments, which created music which provided an enchanting backdrop to the tone of the room. Sherlock and Joan navigated their way through the well-dressed people in the room as they headed towards their table, as the sounds of clinking glasses and pleasant chatter filled the air.

Sherlock removed his arm from Joan's to pull her chair out for her, which she accepted, smiling at him politely in response. As Sherlock walked across the table and drew out his own chair, he cast a cursory glance around the room and instantly found the table that he was interested in. At a table opposite them at the other end of the bar sat Dalton and his associates, Catherine Adams, Jennifer Mandrea and a man Sherlock recognised from the files as Gregory Vasquez. They were sitting together at a table, engaged in animated discussion, as the music played gently behind them.

"Vasquez has arrived" Sherlock announced to Joan in a low voice as he smoothed down his tie upon taking his seat. "I'd wager he arrived fairly recently, otherwise Thomas would have notified us" he stated, glancing around the room as he spoke. "Where is Thomas?"

"Behind the bar" Joan responded, pouring herself and Sherlock a glass of water from the jugs on the table. "He's with Leo, they're taking menus to tables and writing down people's orders."

"I see" Sherlock returned, casting a brief glance towards the bar. Thomas and Leo were talking to one of the chefs, who had come out of the kitchen with a look of consternation upon his face. He spoke to Thomas and Leo briefly, before nodding and smiling, and then returning to the kitchen.

"I wonder what that was about" Joan mumbled, tilting her head slightly as she watched the chef retreat back into the kitchen.

"The vegans on table six, I'd imagine" Sherlock returned simply, before clasping his hands together upon the table. Before Joan could ask him how he knew that they were vegans, and what that had to do with the chef's worried appearance, Sherlock unclasped his hands and reached into his inner jacket pocket, removing a pen and small notepad. Sherlock placed the pen onto the paper, angled it slightly, then pressed the button at the top. To Joan's confusion, the nib of the pen did not appear upon the page. Instead, a small clicking sound could be heard, and Sherlock removed his fingers from the top of the pen, before lying it down carefully by the side of the notepad.

"What are you-"

"I told you I intended on taking pictures of any people who approached Dalton and his vile crew" Sherlock whispered, running a finger along the pen as he spoke, before turning back to face her. "This little device was used by myself on several occasions when I was working with MI6" he stated by way of explanation. "And when I left London I... it appears I forgot to return it" he added innocently, picking up his glass of water and taking a sip as he turned to glance towards Dalton's table. The man he recognised as a former colleague of Dalton's had just left his presence, and was making his way towards the bar. _For his fifth or sixth mojito, judging by the state of him_ Sherlock mused.

"A camera pen" Joan stated incredulously. "Really?"

"Really" Sherlock returned, his eyes remaining on the clearly intoxicated figure who was ambling towards Thomas.

"That's very..." she began, pausing as she considered the surreal nature of their current task. They were dressed up, in literal disguises, taking photos of potential suspects with a camera pen.

"What?" Sherlock asked, turning towards her and interrupting her thought process.

"James Bond" she returned simply, before raising her own glass to her lips. Sherlock rose his eyebrows slightly before facing her directly.

"I suppose that makes you Miss Moneypenny" he stated simply, watching Joan's eyes sparkle through the holes in her mask. She smiled slightly against her glass, her eyes narrowing and shining as she did so, before returning to their previous expression almost instantly. Sherlock considered her expression for a moment, and watched carefully as she placed her glass back upon the table, her fingers lingering upon the stem. "You shouldn't do it, you know" he began, causing Joan's eyes to raise and meet his immediately, a look of confusion upon her face.

"Do what?" she asked, as her fingers dropped slowly from the glass, and rested limply upon the table.

"Be quite so harsh on yourself" he returned simply, his eyes adopting the same kind and compassionate look that he always used when attempting to console her. "You are allowed to smile, Watson" he stated in a low yet gentle voice. "Even though we are here under the most dire of circumstances" he added, watching as her eyes lowered slightly, before they rose to meet his. She nodded absent-mindedly in response, before turning her attention towards Dalton's table. Thomas was showing them the dinner menu, and apparently explaining something to Catherine Adams, who was pointing towards the menu and glancing up at Thomas expectantly. He seemed to satisfy her question in a few words, and she nodded gratefully in response. _Perhaps she has an allergy?_ Joan pondered, as Thomas left with their orders and was replaced by Leo, who showed each person the wine list, a purple-backed menu emblazoned with gold lettering. He departed shortly afterwards, returning with three large bottles of champagne, which the four of them poured out and eagerly shared between them. Joan turned away for a moment, finding their casual attitude to be deeply offensive and highly frustrating. She then found herself considering what the girls who were at the mercy of the mysterious American would be eating that night, if anything at all. Sherlock seemed to sense her sadness, as he reached a hand across the table and clasped hers tightly. Joan glanced down upon their joined hands, her eyes running over his fingers and hers as she felt their hands entwined, before squeezing his hand in return.

The next three hours or so passed fairly uneventfully, with Sherlock and Joan directing their attention at studying Dalton and his colleagues, who barely left their table. Catherine Adams went to the bathroom a couple of times and Dalton went to the bar for some drinks, but that was it. During those hours, Sherlock had taken at least a dozen pictures of men who had approached the table and spoken to Dalton, even for the briefest of moments. He would download the images to his laptop when they returned to their suite, and email them to Gregson immediately. But as the evening progressed, fewer people approached Dalton, and no one sat at his table for more than three minutes. Just before ten o'clock, a tall dark-haired gentleman approached Dalton, holding his hand out to him as he walked towards him. Dalton looked up at him, smiled, and shook his hand in return.

"Who's he?" Joan asked, her eyes indicating towards the table. Sherlock glanced over, his eyes considering the man on the other side of the room for a few moments, before picking up his pen and turning back towards Joan.

"I have no idea" he stated, pressing the pen to his chin and clicking the camera. "But it appears that he is about to sit at Dalton's table" he continued, taking two more pictures of the now seated man. Joan nodded, placing her glass to her lips and glancing over towards the table. "If only we could hear what they were saying" Sherlock whispered, placing the pen back down upon the table.

"Perhaps we can" Joan returned, her eyes widening as she placed her glass back onto the table. "Their table is right by the bar. I'll get us some fresh drinks and linger there for a moment." Sherlock watched her carefully for a few seconds, weighing up her suggestion in his mind, before nodding in agreement.

"Very well" he stated, squeezing her hand once more before releasing his hold upon it. Joan nodded in response, before easing herself out of her seat and walking elegantly towards the bar. Sherlock took a final sip of his sparkling water, draining the glass in a single drag, as he watched Joan reach the bar, call to Thomas, and request two drinks. As he turned to prepare them, she slowly made her way to the end section of the bar, leaning against it casually as her drinks were made. Sherlock watched the scene with interest, his partner standing confidently against the bar, the black ribbon from her mask trailing elegantly down the back of her head, as she pointed to something in one of the fridges upon the ground. Sherlock's eyes drifted from Joan to Dalton's table, and to his surprise, he found that Douglas Dalton himself was staring at Joan. Sherlock exhaled sharply as he watched Dalton's eyes rise from over his glass and rest upon Joan's body, watching her intently as she ordered the drinks. The look only lasted for a few moments, but to Sherlock it felt like a frightening and painful eternity. But his beautiful companion who stood poised and confident at the end of the bar remained completely oblivious to the predatory glances inflicted upon her by the beast in the thousand-dollar suit.

From her position at the end of the bar, Joan could hear the laughter from Dalton's table, and the sound made her stomach clench.

"What you have to understand, Douglas, is that it is a national past-time, truly. A classic" the tall stranger spoke in a British accent. _Damnit_ thought Joan, as she continued to listen to the men discussing football for a few minutes, until Thomas arrived back with her drinks. There appeared to be no subtext to their conversation, no allusions to anything improper or illicit, and the man's accent appeared to be genuinely British. Joan sighed, drinking some of her drink at the bar as she talked to Thomas for a few minutes, half of her attention still being devoted to the conversation on the table a few feet away. After she had drank half of her drink she picked up her clutch bag and the glasses from the bar, before carrying them over to her and Sherlock's table. She placed Sherlock's drink before him as she continued to sip upon her own.

"What did you discover?" Sherlock asked in a low tone as he took a sip from the drink Joan had placed before him, which smelled of lemonade and coconut.

"That Dalton loathes football but adores tennis" she stated in mild annoyance. "They talked about sports for several minutes. His guest is British and, based on how highly he spoke of baseball, I wouldn't be surprised if he is in the city to watch the Mets play next week" she sighed, taking another sip of her drink. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, placing his own drink on the table and allowing his hand to drift towards hers once more.

"You mustn't be disheartened" he stated kindly, allowing a small period of silence to fall between them, as he trailed his thumb gently up the side of her hand. "After all" he continued, as his thumb began to lightly explore her palm. "The Mets might even win." Joan smiled slightly, lowering her head and staring at their entwined hands, before looking up towards him once more. For a few moments, and perhaps for the first few moments of the night, Sherlock and Joan's attentions were removed entirely from the table they were watching. As their attentions were so focused upon each other, and especially upon the fact that their hands were joined together upon the table and exploring each other tenderly once more, neither of the consulting detectives seemed to notice the footsteps of the tall figure who was approaching them. In fact, the presence of this individual, as well as their identity, was not realised until their voice announced their entrance.

"Good evening, Mrs Taylor" came the voice of Douglas Dalton, who was standing just a few feet away from their table. "Would you care to dance?"


	9. For Poorer

Joan and Sherlock both glanced up at the speaking figure instantly, their eyes taking in his arrogant eyes and authoritative demeanour. A small smile played on his lips as he directed his attention at Joan, who leaned back slightly in her seat, her eyes not leaving his face.

As she looked up at him, she considered the brazenness of his approach and his request. He had, for all intents and purposes, approached a married woman and her husband and requested a dance of her, a complete stranger. The event would have been almost amusing had his arrogance and reprehensible immorality not shone through. But as she processed these thoughts in a matter of mere moments, she found herself considering the investigative opportunity that stood before her. This was the closest she would get to him, the best chance she had at talking to him one to one, and whilst his guard was possibly down. Or, at least, lower than it would be usually. People often reveal grand things unintentionally even in the most innocent of conversations. Before she could speak, Sherlock's voice roused her from her thoughts.

"I'm afraid that my wife hurt her foot this morning in the pool, and is not feeling quite up to dancing" Sherlock stated, his voice low and polite but bordering on a warning tone.

"Is that so?" Dalton breathed, raising his eyebrows slightly as he turned towards Joan. "You really should be more careful, Mrs Taylor" he purred. "But the music is slow and gentle, as is the dancing which has been going on all night" he continued, focusing on Joan intently. "I promise I will be careful" he added gently.

Joan felt sickened by his demeanour and his words, and was torn between feeling grateful for Sherlock's attempt at giving her a viable excuse not to dance, and frustrated that he did not allow her to speak for herself. But as she looked up at Dalton, who was standing imposingly over the table, she found that the images of the faces of the missing girls on the desk in Gregson's office flooded her mind. Their smiling faces and innocent eyes swam through her consciousness, until the image was soiled by the arrogant individual stood before her. But as she looked towards him, she realised that the opportunity he was offering her was more damaging to him than it was to her, and that the girls whose faces were burned on to her mind were dependent upon the success of their investigation which, at the moment, had reached a period of arguable stagnation.

"I'm feeling much better now that I've rested" Joan spoke gently, placing her hands in her lap as she looked up at Dalton. "I'd love to dance, thank you" she added, accepting his cold hand and allowing him to guide her to the dance floor. She did not look back towards Sherlock, whose expression she was certain would cause her composure to fall and her guilt to consume her. But the safety and well-being of those girls depended on them, and if a few minutes of discomfort could provide even the smallest of clues as to their whereabouts or Dalton's endgame, she was willing to endure it. Her partner, however, was not.

As Joan rose from her seat and walked with Dalton towards the dance floor, Sherlock felt himself feel physically stunned, almost paralysed with a combination of fear and anger. He considered rising from his seat and storming onto the dance floor, acting the part of a jealous husband and convincing Joan to come back with him. But as he caught sight of Dalton's table, and the animalistic expressions on the faces of his associates who were watching Dalton and Joan intently, he decided against it. Such an action could risk blowing their cover, and potentially put Joan in danger. He breathed in deeply and let out a slow breath, rising his drink to his lips as he continued to watch his partner be led away from the safety of their table and into the dragon's lair. He could not comprehend what had caused her to act in such a manner, especially when he had given her a valid and partially true reason to politely excuse herself from his request. Undoubtedly, she had a plan. There would be a method to her incomprehensible madness. But whatever it was, Sherlock had not been made privy to it. And as he felt his skin flush and his heart begin to race, he began to consider all the possible reasons for her accepting his request, before quickly coming to the conclusion that none of them would be good enough.

Dalton led Joan to the dance floor, his tall and stocky figure standing authoritatively in the centre of the room, as he rose his hand to allow Joan to move to the side, before turning to face him. The light from the candles shone across his face, darkening his features and highlighting the arrogant and unappealing smirk which seemed to be a permanent fixture upon his ruddy face. Joan tried to remain calm and relaxed as she felt his hand upon her side, as it slowly moved across her back and rested in the centre of her back, as they danced slowly to the music.

"You'll let me know if your foot injury become aggravated, won't you?" Dalton purred, as he led Joan slowly and deliberately across the dance floor.

"I'm absolutely fine, really" she returned simply.

"I'm sure you are" he stated, a sinister edge entering his tone, which made Joan raise her eyes slightly. She was grateful that she was still wearing her mask, and hoped that it would partially conceal the revulsion and tension that she was currently attempting to get under control. As she considered the feeling of his hands upon her skin, the scent of alcohol on his breath and the coldness of his touch, she found herself contrasting this to the touches and dance she shared with Sherlock. She found herself remembering his warm hands, delicate and inviting touch, and the chivalrous way in which he guided her across the dance floor. Her musings succeeded in relaxing her slightly, but she was torn from her thoughts by Dalton's voice. "I owe you an apology, I fear" he began, chuckling slightly as he spoke. "I have not introduced myself. My name is Douglas Dalton" he stated, in a manner that his name was eponymous with some famous or renowned figures.

"Clara Taylor" Joan returned, punctuating her introduction with a small smile. "But it seems like you already knew that." A small smile played on Dalton's lips as she spoke.

"I overheard the waiter refer to you and your husband as 'Mr and Mrs Taylor' when you came in for dinner yesterday" he explained. Joan nodded in understanding, despite feeling certain that he was lying.

"I see" she said simply, rising her eyes to his face once more, before allowing a brief moment's silence to pass between them. "May I ask what made you ask me to dance?" she asked.

"I enjoy dancing with beautiful women" he replied instantly, giving her a small smile and an appraising look. Joan nodded and adopted a bashful expression, as fought back the repulsion which was rising inside her. She suspected that he loved dancing with attractive women like a cattle farmer liked being pictured with a prize sow, and she felt very much like a piece of meat. Which, she considered, was hardly surprising given his reprehensible occupation.

"Even married ones?" she countered, her eyes moving up to meet his. He tilted his head to the side in a dismissive and off-hand manner as they continued to dance.

"Especially married ones". Joan lowered her gaze from his for a moment as they danced across the room. "Your husband does not approve?" Dalton asked after a few moments, causing Joan to raise her head to meet his gaze.

"I don't think he minds" she added gently. "We often attend these functions, and mingling is something we are very used to."

"Is that so?" Dalton asked casually as they continued to dance. "What is it you do, exactly?"

"We're lawyers" she answered simply. "I specialise in human rights and my husband's work is centred around the first amendment."

"Protecting the rights of those whose freedom of speech is being threatened" Dalton muttered. "Impressive."

"Yes, he is" she stated with conviction, in a manner and tone that convinced Dalton that her feelings for him in this matter were genuine.

"You clearly think very highly of him" he said simply.

"I do" she returned with certainty, before turning back towards him and offering him an apologetic expression. "I'm sorry, I'm talking about myself" she smiled. "What do you do?" Dalton was quiet for a few moments, before removing his hand from hers and spinning her across the floor, before pulling her back to his side in a move that made Joan feel almost physically sickened.

"I specialise in international trade" he said casually. Joan watched as his eyes adopted a sinister expression and his features darkened. She felt her stomach clench as she absorbed his words. But despite her initial disgust, she managed to maintain a calm and composed demeanour, nodding in understanding at his statement as they continued to dance.

"So are you hear on business or pleasure?" she asked casually.

"Pleasure" he returned instantly. "Most definitely pleasure" he stated, watching her as he spoke. She nodded in response, as his hand pulled her slightly closer as they continued to dance. "I do not like things becoming... complicated" he added, watching her carefully for a response. Joan could feel the intensity of his gaze upon her, and she smiled slightly and nodded in agreement.

"Me neither. Simplicity is key" she began. "My husband and I are not even accessing work-related emails this week. We're on our honeymoon."

"Newlyweds" Dalton said appraisingly, as they danced near his table. "Congratulations."

"Thank you" Joan replied gently. "Are you married?"

"Me? No" he replied, his voice adopting a low tone.

"Oh, sorry I... I assumed that you and the lady on your table..."

"Catherine? No" he replied, stifling a small yet undoubtedly false laugh as he spoke. "No, Catherine and I are colleagues. She works for me."  
>Joan nodded, before looking into his eyes as she attempted to prepare herself for the brazen and potentially risky statement she was about to make.<p>

"You bring your colleagues on non-work related trips?" she asked. "That doesn't sound simple."

"Life seldom is" he returned, raising his eyebrows as he spoke. "Things often become muddied, complicated. And this tends to produce the most... undesirable of results" he stated, his voice adopting a sinister edge as they continued to dance. "Don't you agree?"

"I do" she returned, inhaling deeply as she spoke.

"Yes" he returned, his tone causing her eyes to turn hesitantly towards him. "In my work, I find it best to limit the chances of undesirable results arising. As, I'm sure, do you and your husband."

"We do, yes" she replied, as the music began to slow.

"It is something which should be practised in both business and person circumstances, don't you think?" he asked, causing Joan to turn towards him with interest. "Discretion" he stated simply, holding her close to him as the music stopped. Before she could respond, he picked up her hand and rose it to her lips. "A pleasure, Clara" he stated, planting a kiss upon her hand. Joan swallowed, nodding politely towards him as he released her hand. "Goodnight".

"Goodnight" she replied, turning on the spot and heading back to her table. As she took a few steps back towards the table, she felt her previous feelings of fear and trepidation slowly ebb from her body, as relief washed over her. However, her brief feelings of solace and certainty were removed before she even reached the table, as Sherlock looked up at her with a wide-eyed and remonstrative expression. Before she could speak, Sherlock rose from his seat and walked around the table towards her chair, picking up her jacket and standing behind her. Joan reached for her clutch bag as she felt his hands place the black jacket over her shoulders, as he wordlessly draped it across her back and arms, before placing his hand procedurally on her lower back and guiding her out of the room. Joan felt her breathing increase and her body become awash wish a curious mixture of fear and guilt, as her partner led her wordlessly through the foyer and towards the elevator.

Inside the dining room, Dalton smirked to himself as he walked casually back to his table, easing himself into the chair as he pressed his champagne glass to his lips. "Quite the little actress" he muttered in dry amusement, before taking a few sips of the fizzy liquid. "But I do not believe we are in any danger" he stated in an arrogantly reflective manner.

"You're certain?" Catherine asked, turning towards him with interest. "They are unaware of what transpired here this evening?"

"You mean the... completion of our trade agreement?" he asked, causing a few stifled laughs to emerge from the other two members of their party. "No. I am quite certain that they did not realise the significance of what they saw" he stated, picking up the champagne bottle and pouring himself another glass. "It happened right before their eyes, and they still missed it" he said with a smug and contemptible expression. Catherine nodded in understanding, raising her own glass to her lips, and taking a tentative sip of her water. As she did so, her eyes adopted a sad and glassy expression, which she fought back instantly. By the time she placed her glass back upon the table, her expression was as stoic and unreadable as ever. But inside, her heart was breaking.

Sherlock and Joan stood silently in the elevator, which seemed to be carrying them to their floor slower than ever before. Sherlock was standing tall, facing the doorway with sanguine and unblinking eyes, as he processed the events of the past few minutes. Joan stood perfectly still by his side, a solemn expression upon her face. She thought of her actions, playing over the moments leading up to her accepting Dalton's offer, and the tone of Sherlock's voice as he offered her a way out. She knew he was angry, but whether that was because she had defied him or because he disapproved of her tactics, she could not tell. Joan turned towards him, as the sound of his fingers drumming nervously upon his thighs drew her from her thoughts. Sherlock's features were flushed and his breathing was heavy, and his body was exuding clear signs of physical agitation. Joan took a step closer to him, and cautiously extended her hand, placing her fingers gently over his own, causing them to tense before stilling completely. Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment at the contact, before removing his hand from hers just as the elevator doors slowly opened before them. Sherlock passed through the doors quickly, walking briskly towards their suite. He unlocked the door with his key card and passed into the room, walking directly across the room to the windows on the other side. Joan walked slowly through the entrance and closed the door gently behind her, the small click caused by this action breaking the silence, just as Sherlock turned to face her with blazing eyes and a shocked expression.

"What were you thinking?" he asked incredulously in a low and unfamiliar tone. Joan found herself frozen to the spot as she heard his tone, which was unfamiliar and quite surprising. She removed her mask and held it in her left hand, before taking a step closer to the couch and leaning upon it.

"Sherlock-" she began gently, turning to face him with warm eyes, a he stared back at her with an unreadable expression.

"That was the most rash, dangerous and risky-"

"Whoa, wait, stop" she began, speaking gently as she rose a hand to still his speech. "It happened quickly and I reacted, okay? We are supposed to think on our feet, consider the circumstances and then-"

"Yes, the circumstances" Sherlock stated in a slow and slightly patronising tone. "In this case, the circumstances were that an amoral narcissist who sees women as nothing more than objects to be sold and traded to other like-minded pond-life requested a dance with you, and you accepted" he stated incredulously. Joan sighed, waiting for a few moments for Sherlock to regain his composure, before she began to address him.

"He approached us. It was a risky and brash move by an arrogant ass who thinks he has one up on us" she stated defiantly, gesturing with her hand as she spoke. "I accepted his request because we are undercover, Sherlock" she stated, over-pronouncing the words to ensure they gained his attention. "What I did may have been risky and ill-advised, but it was a risk I was willing to take in order to try to develop our investigation" she stated, her voice calming as Sherlock stood before her, his chest heaving as he listened to her words. She understood why he was upset, and wished to placate him. But at the same time, she felt that she did not deserve the unjust criticism that he was subjecting her to. "Talking to him would give us a deeper insight into him as a person. His guard would be down, and he would not be able to create elaborate lies to questions which he could not foresee" she explained gently, watching as Sherlock's expression remained unchanged.

"I've worked undercover before, Sherlock" she added, her voice adopting a mildly irritated tone.

"Not like this" he countered in a low voice, shaking his head slightly as he spoke.

"I did precisely what we came here to do, Sherlock" she stated, watching as he glared at her with an unconvinced stare. "What do you think I did for the eight months you were away?" she continued. "Look for lost kittens and reunited children with toys left at Grand Central Station?" she asked incredulously. Sherlock looked towards her with an analytical glare, ignoring the comments she had just made as he began to speak.

"Did you sustain a head injury in the pool too?" Sherlock countered, sarcasm and incredulity present in his tone, as he took a step towards her. "What you did was a risk that we did not need to take."

"What we do is defined by risks, Sherlock" Joan responded. "If we didn't take risks, we wouldn't make half of the breakthroughs in cases that we have done since working together" she stated, her voice adopting a calmer tone as she attempted to diffuse the situation. "Just minutes before we left, you were talking about both of us knowing and accepting the risks of this work, remember? That's exactly what I did" she stated calmly, looking up at him expectantly.

"We face the risks together, Watson, not apart" he stated, his voice calmer but his skin flushed and his eyes ablaze.

"He just approached us, Sherlock. Without warning and without either of us noticing" she began, as they each remembered precisely what it was that caused them to lose their focus for that short period of time. "We didn't have time to discuss it. I acted quickly and I thought I was doing the right thing. I still think that I did" she stated, looking towards him as he rose his chin and met her gaze. "The whole reason for us being here is to monitor him and his associates in the hopes of finding these missing girls and bringing down his organisation" she stated gently. "We won't be able to accomplish that if we remain forever on the sidelines." Joan turned to Sherlock and found him relaxing slightly, as a small and almost imperceptible nod broke his previously statuesque stillness. "And if I had refused, it could have looked rude and suspicious-"

"Yes, heaven forbid we offend the officious swine" Sherlock muttered under his voice, as his fingers began to tap the side of his leg once more. Joan watched as Sherlock seemed to be languishing between listening to the logic of her argument and tormenting himself at the danger she was in. She knew that what she had done was brash and possibly ill-advised, but at the time it seemed like the most effective way to learn more about their target. But as she watched Sherlock from across the room, she felt guilt begin to ebb into her being, and she felt a pull towards him, combined with an overwhelming need to comfort him.

"Sherlock-" she breathed, crossing the room and walking towards him, pausing as they were a few inches apart. Before she could continue her statement, Sherlock lowered his head to face her, and began to speak.

"You put yourself in unnecessary danger" he stated calmly, his fingers still drumming lightly against his thigh, as his eyes ran analytically across her face.

"We were dancing in the middle of a crowded room" Joan responded, her voice gentle and respectful. "And the fact he had approached us shows that, for whatever reason, we are on his radar" she continued, watching as Sherlock's wide eyes sparkled as they met her own. "We could already be in danger. So agreeing to his request meant that I was able to talk to him, gauge his responses and his mannerisms, whilst considering him close-up. If we're in danger either way, that gave us an opportunity to learn more about him than we can from files or grainy computer images" she said softly. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, before lowering his lead slightly and speaking to her gently.

"What did you talk about?" he asked, his voice low and solemn. In a few minutes Joan recounted the details of the conversation she shared with Dalton, and Sherlock listened patiently and with great interest.

"I'm sure it was some kind of test" Joan said after a few moments of silence had passed between them. "To find out how much know, what we're aware or what we suspect."

"Quite possibly" returned Sherlock, as Dalton's words echoed in his mind. He thought of the words and the dance that Dalton and Joan shared, and found his gaze befall his partner. "But he's a dangerous man, Watson. You read the file and the briefings, and you know what he is capable of."

"Which is precisely why I took the risk. There are dozens of girls whose lives and well-being depend on what happens in this hotel in the next four days" she responded gently, before allowing a few moments pause so Sherlock could process her words. "Are you angry because I did it or because I did it against your advice?" she asked. There was a brief silence, and Sherlock turned his head up slightly and faced her with a confident and unwavering look.

"I'm not angry, Watson" he breathed, his voice adopting a low and reflective tone. "I am simply concerned that you seem to view yourself solely as an investigative tool or instrument, which has little value and can be easily replaced" he began, watching as her featured softened before adopting a slightly confused expression. "When you are, in actual fact, so much more" he continued, their eyes locking as their breathing increased, and the same tingling and electrifying draw they had experienced before returned to them. Before either of them could respond, a brief beeping from Sherlock's laptop on the table diverted their attentions. Joan remained perfectly still as she processed Sherlock's words, her heart beating faster as he took a step back from her, turned, and headed into the living area. After a few moments she followed him, heading towards the lounge area and standing beside the couch, as Sherlock pulled the laptop onto his lap and began to type away.

"What is it?" Joan asked in a low, weary voice.

"Dalton's files" Sherlock responded simply, his voice defined by a hollow tone which Joan found to be slightly unnerving. "They have been decrypted" he added, edging further down the sofa as he spoke, which freed up a space for her. Joan walked slowly around the couch and to his side, smoothing down her dress as she sat beside him, and turned her attentions to the screen.

"Oh, my God" she breathed, studying the images and words before her intently as the light from the screen shone in her eyes. Sherlock swallowed, before glancing back at the laptop and then towards his partner, who breathed in deeply as she looked at what was revealed before her.


	10. In Sickness

A/N: Hey everyone :) Thanks for reading the last chapter, and thank you for also taking the time to review :) This chapter is quite case-oriented, and I'm sorry if it seems like one of those 'information overload' ones, but there are a lot of loose ends which need to be tied up before the first big event in two or three chapters' time. Also, Sherlock and Joan's investigative prowess means that they would be making quite a lot of progress in both the personal and professional aspects of their mission. So I apologise if this chapter is unsatisfactory.

As always, any issues/questions/advice is greatly appreciated :)

Thanks everyone, and I hope you're having a wonderful start to the New Year! :)

- HQ21

Joan's eyes lingered upon the screen for a moment, as she continued to study the words and images before her as Sherlock's scrolled down. After half a minute that felt like an eternity, Joan leaned back, her whole body feeling hot and confined, as tried to blink away what she had just seen, and its implications.

Sherlock sensed her moving back, and did or said nothing to stop her. Instead, he continued the soul-destroying task of continuing to take in the material on the screen. In sum, the decrypted files contained information on dozens of young women who had been in the clutches of Dalton. The files contained pictures, information and even current statuses of several dozen women, whose head-shots were often labelled with red letters which either read 'transferred' or 'contract terminated'. Some of the images had no words on them at all, which Sherlock deduced meant that the women were still in Dalton's clutches. As he scrolled further down the page, he found that he was recognising the faces of many of the women, some from files given to himself and Joan by Gregson, and some from their secondary research. But as the faces of women whose lives had been destroyed by the monster who they were investigating disappeared down the screen, only to be replaced by further pictures of women who had suffered in the same way, the consultants found themselves sickened.

"What is this?" Joan asked in a hollow and slightly choked voice.

"A catalogue of suffering and degradation" Sherlock began, as he scrolled to the bottom of the scree before turning to face Joan. "But one which could, one would hope, inform some families of the fates of their loved ones. Although I strongly suspect the majority of them will be disappointed." Joan was silent for a few moments, and Sherlock watched her as she swallowed hard and nodded in response, as she attempted to regain her composure.

"How many are there?" she asked, her voice recovering itself slightly.

"One hundred and sixteen" Sherlock stated quickly, as if hoping that saying the number quickly would limit its realism and its impact. It did not. Joan nodded once more, inhaling shakily and leaning forward, as she poised herself to speak.

"Why would he-" she began, cutting herself off before recovering quickly and continuing. "Why would he keep this? It's incriminating evidence."

"He's clearly a sadist. He wants to keep tabs on the women he has traded or sold or kept over the years. Serial killers take trophies, Dalton maintains detailed files on his victims" Sherlock began, his voice low and respectful. " And I hate to say it, Watson, but technically this is not evidence at all" he stated solemnly, watching as her face turned instantly towards him. "Not of the admissible variety, at least. As you recall, it was obtained illegally. And regardless of the harrowing and conclusive nature of the information in these files, no court in this country would permit them into evidence." Joan's eyes became glassy and reflective for a few moments as she pondered her thoughts, before turning towards him with a look of confidence and resolution burned into her features.

"Then we'll find another way" she stated with conviction.

"We will" he returned immediately, in a tone of equal certainty. She nodded in response, before adopting a pensive expression and turning back towards him.

"Even if he is keeping the files as some sort of trophy" she began, her eyes narrowing in confusion as she spoke. "It was still a huge risk. Keeping files of that nature on his laptop, unattended in his room. Why would someone who has attracted the interest of several intelligence agencies take such a bold risk?" Sherlock processed her question and was silent for several moments, before turning towards her to answer.

"As we've discussed before, Watson" he began, his tone low and gentle. "Dalton is arrogant. Criminally so. He believes that he has the power and the ability to get away with the crimes he has committed. As Gregson said, the various agencies investigating him know he has done it, liability is not the issue. The issue is proving it. And the files he maintains on his laptop were hardly easy to access; it took intelligence-grade encryption software to breach them."

"But he is wanted _by_ intelligence agencies" Joan countered, confusion entering her tone. "Who, presumably, all have access to the same software that your colleagues at MI6 do."

"Of course" Sherlock stated, nodding as he spoke. "But none of them would be able to obtain the files legally in order to decrypt them in the first place" he explained. "And as I said, without obtaining the files legally, which is impossible because there was no probable cause for a warrant, these files are, in effect, non-existent." Joan understood what Sherlock was saying, and had a sound understanding of how the legal system worked. And ordinarily she was its biggest advocate. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

"So what do we do?" she asked. "How do we make them admissible?" Sherlock leaned back slightly, his eyes drifting warily towards the laptop, before focusing on Clyde's carry case.

"We get probably cause" he responded simply. "We continue the investigative work we have been undertaking, and search for a valid and legally justified reason to obtain a search warrant for his room and his laptop."

"Assuming he's arrogant or naïve enough to leave the laptop in his room again" Joan countered. Sherlock considered her words whilst remembering the look of satisfaction and achievement on Dalton's face as he led Joan away from the table and towards the dance floor.

"I'm quite certain that he is" Sherlock returned decisively. Joan cast a curious glance in his direction upon noticing the strangeness of his tone. After a few moments of silent contemplation, she felt ready and determined to continue the investigation, and to bring an end to Dalton's 'international trade' business, as he had so sickeningly described it.

"Did the names of the ten girls whose files Gregson gave us appear in Dalton's files?" Joan asked simply, her eyes meeting Sherlock's as she spoke.

"No" he returned, having skimmed through all the names of the girls listed in the files, and memorising each one. Joan nodded in understanding.

"That sort of upholds our theory that Dalton and his associates are here to negotiate a deal regarding them" she stated solemnly. "Their names aren't in his files, and yet he is here with two associates who, according to the intelligence we have available, are engaged in the same criminal enterprises as him." Sherlock exhaled slowly as he considered her words, before a question flashed in his mind.

"What about the four that Gregson sent you today?" Sherlock asked, turning towards her as he spoke. "The ones you have not yet had the chance to search?" Joan thought for a moment, before reaching for her clutch bag and removing her phone. She quickly located the email in question and opened up the files, reading out the names of the potential victims, which Sherlock considered against the list he had memorised from Dalton's files.

"Madeline Harrison, Jemima Drake, Alison Elders and Penny Clarke" Joan stated, her eyes widening and her mind racing as she read the final name, which brought back memories of a young woman holding a baby. "Penny Clarke" she repeated in a low voice.

"None of those names are mentioned in Dalton's files either" Sherlock stated, turning towards Joan with a puzzled expression. "Watson?"

"Do you remember me telling you about the pictures of a young woman and a child I found when I searched Catherine Adams' room?" Joan asked.

"The ones you felt depicted a younger Catherine Adams with an infant?" he returned. "Yes" he added, waiting for Joan to continue.

"Most of the pictures were on her laptop, and charted the baby's growth from infancy to adulthood" Joan began. "But there was one hard-copy of a photograph, one taken when the baby appeared to be a newborn" she added, watching as Sherlock looked at her intently. "On the back of that photograph was the name 'Penny'." Sherlock nodded in understanding.

"The last girl's name you found was Penny Clarke, yes?" he asked, turning back towards his laptop and pulling it on to his lap, before beginning to type. After a few moments he found a newspaper article from a local paper, dated a few months ago. "Disappearance of NYU student" he read, scanning the report quickly and reading out some of the key pieces of information. "Twenty-three year old Literature student... taken from outside her Manhattan apartment on the third of May... signs of blood at the scene, no leads" he stated, leaning back slightly from the screen.

"Does it say anything about her parents?" Joan asked, edging slightly closer to Sherlock and glancing at the laptop. Sherlock felt his skin tingle slightly as her warm thighs lightly brushed his. He pushed his thoughts aside and stared back towards the laptop, concentrating completely on the task at hand.

"Emily and Arthur Clarke" he returned. "Wealthy architects who also reside in Manhattan" he added, before opening a new tab and running a new search. A few seconds later, his fingers hovered over the laptop keys as he leaned back slightly, his eyes analysing the image before him with interest. "But according to her birth certificate, Penny Clarke was not their biological daughter. She was born in the city to Elizabeth Gerard and an unnamed father."

"Do you have a picture of Elizabeth Gerard?" Joan asked, turning her attention back towards the screen before her. After searching through some sites and archives which he used on frequent occasions, Sherlock managed to find a picture of the woman in question. It was a graduation picture from a British University, featuring six young women who graduated from the prestigious institution with honours. According to a footnote, the figure who stood second from the left was Elizabeth Gerard. Joan removed the memory stick from her purse and plugged it into the laptop, opening up the files she had copied from Catherine Adams' room. Although the picture of Elizabeth Gerard as a graduate was clearly Catherine Adams, a quick comparison to a picture of the young woman whose growth Catherine had charted confirmed the fact.

"She's the vision of her mother" Sherlock confirmed, his eyes darting from the image of Catherine Adams to 'Penny' at the same age. Their figures and postures were similar, but their features were unquestionably familial. Although there was no doubt in their minds that Catherine Adams and Elizabeth Gerard were the same person, it also became beyond questioning that Penny Clarke was her daughter.

"So who is Elizabeth Gerard?" Joan asked, leaning back slightly as she spoke. "And why is she using the name of Catherine Adams?" Sherlock reflected for a moment, before clasping his hands in his lap and turning towards his partner.

"What we can deduce from the available information" Sherlock began, gauging Joan's attention. "Is that, in 1991, Elizabeth Gerard placed her newborn baby daughter up for adoption. At that point, her life as Elizabeth Gerard ended. There are no further details on her. The last piece of official documentation which proves that she even existed was her daughter's birth certificate."

"So some time after giving up her baby for adoption she assumed a new identity, which she has been using for the past two decades" Joan stated, considering the implications of this statement as Sherlock continued to speak.

"The fact that her identity stood up to your intense research over the past few days shows that 'Catherine Adams' is a carefully constructed alias which was created in order to be impenetrable" he stated simply. "And there are very few organisations who are capable of creating such a strong yet elaborate cover story."

"You think she works for an intelligence agency?" Joan asked, considering the theory as she addressed Sherlock. "You think that Catherine Adams is an alias assigned to her by whichever agency she works for?"

"I think it the most likely explanation" Sherlock responded. "Intelligence agencies typically recruit individuals whilst they are at University or shortly after graduating. The fact that Ms Gerard's last public image was a picture of her graduating from a prestigious institution would give weight to that belief." Joan listened carefully to Sherlock's argument, which she agreed with completely.

"And because she graduated from a British institution, you think she was recruited by British intelligence?" she asked. Sherlock nodded in response.

"I think that is the most likely scenario, yes. I will reach out to my contacts in MI6 to confirm it, of course. And if she did not work for them, they may be familiar with her" he stated, removing his phone from his pocket and beginning to type.

"That photograph was taken in 1990, wasn't it?" she asked, remembering the date on the newspaper. "So she was either pregnant or about to become pregnant when it was taken?" Sherlock continued to type on his phone as Joan spoke, but nodding in agreement to her statement, as he re-read the message before sending it.

"I suspect she was recruited shortly before graduating, and informed that she would need to sever all connections with what would be known as her 'former life'" Sherlock stated, as he placed his phone back into his pocket.

"And then she found out she was pregnant" Joan answered, watching as Sherlock looked towards her with a solemn expression. "She had the baby in this country under a name she knew would no longer exist shortly afterwards. She either did it to protect her career or protect her baby." Sherlock nodded in response.

"Possibly both" he returned. "I'd imagine that was a very fraught and challenging part of her life" Sherlock stated. Despite the matter-of-fact tone he used, Joan was certain that she detected empathy in his voice. It was certainly present in his eyes. "But, as you discovered, she did not find it as easy to remove herself from her identity as she did from her daughter" he continued, meeting Joan's gaze. "The pictures she has show that she kept an eye on Penny, whose disappearance would have been discovered by her almost instantly."

"Prompting her to use her skills to search for her" Joan added. "Which led to her infiltrating Dalton's organisation."

"Indeed" Sherlock returned, nodding in response. "She may have suspected Dalton of having taken her daughter or knowing who had. So, naturally, she aligned herself with him in the hopes of locating her missing child."

"How could we have missed this?" Joan asked in a solemn tone as she turned towards Sherlock.

"The alias she is using was one which was designed to fool Dalton" he explained. "I highly doubt it is her only alias, and it certainly won't be the one she uses primarily. But it was created by an intelligence organisation whose main goal was to ensure that she was not discovered" he added. "I suspect she did not reveal to them the existence of her daughter. Rather, she found a way to infiltrate Dalton's organisation, and wished to do it. Although her original intention had been solely searching for her daughter, she found that the rabbit hole led her to more victims than she could have foreseen. She is posing as an ally of Dalton's in order to save her daughter and the other victims of his heinous organisation."

"I can't even begin to imagine what she's going through" Joan stated, causing Sherlock to turn towards her. "Having to work with Dalton, knowing the intimate details of his organisation and what they are here to achieve, whilst all along knowing that her daughter could face the same fate" she added, as Sherlock listened attentively to her words.

"Clearly, we must make contact with her" Sherlock stated decisively.

"We can't risk blowing her cover and exposing her to Dalton" Joan returned gently. Sherlock turned towards her and nodded as he considered her words, leaning back slightly and placing his hands upon his knees.

"We must make contact with her, Watson" he returned simply, his voice low and respectful. "Our collaborative efforts may prove sufficient to solve the case."

"I understand that" Joan responded gently. "Really, I do. But I think that for us to do that simply to talk to her, more out of curiosity than anything, would be risky and selfish" she continued. "We should continue investigating the leads we have, increase our understanding of what is going on, and then approach her with something more tangible and certain" she added. "Besides, she has worked in intelligence and has succeeding in fooling Dalton into believing that she is his ally. She is hardly going to answer our questions and collaborate with us unconditionally simply because we know who she is. She isn't going to risk her cover, and she certainly wouldn't jeopardise her daughter's life."

"You're right" Sherlock conceded after a few moments. Joan's previously tense and unsettled expression warmed slightly, and she offered him a small smile, before picking up her laptop from the table and placing it onto her lap, as she sat cross-legged beside him on the couch.

Despite having worked together in the suite for three days, this was the closest they had been when working, in purely physical terms. As he felt her knee brush lightly against his thigh on a few occasions, as the scent of her perfume drifted steadily towards him, it occurred to Sherlock that the small amounts of physical contact they had been sharing recently were marks of reassurance. To reassure themselves of their cover? Perhaps. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Sherlock blinked this thought away and returned his attention to his screen, as he continued to analyse Dalton's files, which meant exploring the sickening depths to his depravity. As he did so, Joan researched the four other potential victims, including Penny Clarke, whilst unsuccessfully attempting to obtain more information about Elizabeth/Catherine.

The consultants worked continuously for several hours, the adrenaline from their recent discoveries coursing through their veins and enabling them to work. But as it reached four o'clock in the morning, Joan felt herself overcome by a wave of drowsiness which two black coffees and endless glasses of water could not sate. As she began reading through some of Penny's academic records, she found her eyelids feeling heavy and her limbs weak, as her fingers hovered lightly above the laptop as she battled the urge to sleep. Sherlock, who had noticed his partner's fatigue hours ago, urged her to get some rest, which she adamantly refused. She fought he urge to sleep with surprising and impressive strength which she did not realise that she possessed. But in the end, it was not quite enough, and shortly after half-past four in the morning, Joan's eyes closed firmly and her body relaxed into the cushioned seats. As he was typing, Sherlock felt Joan's leg feel heavy against his own, and detected the notably movement of her head against the cushioned seat. He stopped typing for a moment and glanced in her direction, and found himself gazing at the serene expression on her sleeping face, as she leaned into the couch.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side for a moment, watching her intently as she slept. Her skin seemed pale and her eyes had the darkened circles which revealed her tiredness. And yet, she had continued to fight sleep, battling it with impressive strength and conviction until her body surrendered. Just as he was about to turn back to his laptop, one of Joan's curls which had been tucked behind her ear drifted in front of her face, before positioning itself just in front of her right eye. With little thought, Sherlock rose his left hand from his laptop and moved the stray curl away, his finger tenderly brushing her cheek as he did so. Joan moaned tiredly as his finger drifted lightly across her face, as his eyes widened at the sight of her. Before he could continue typing, Sherlock noticed how his touch seemed to have roused Joan slightly. She was leaning into the back of the cushioned couch, her cheek brushing lightly against the material as her legs straightened slightly, removing themselves from the loose sitting position and rearranging themselves so that her right leg was stretched out and resting over her left one. In so doing, Joan's head drifted slowly down the couch in a single gentle movement, stopping only as it came into contact with Sherlock's upper arm, which blocked any further movement. Sherlock remained completely still as he watched her with interest, fearful that the slightest movement on his part would cause her to wake. Whether he was concerned about this because he wanted her to rest or because he did not wish her to move, he could not be certain. But as he pondered this query, Joan's head relaxed into his arm, and the sound of her breathing pattern revealed that she was already in a deep sleep.

Sherlock watched her for a few minutes more, his body relaxing as she rested upon him. He then turned back to his laptop and stared at the screen blankly for a few moments, before blinking himself from his reverie and continuing with his research. For the next two hours, the only sounds in the room were Sherlock's quiet typing mingled with the gentle and rhythmic breathing of Joan Watson, whose body sought the comfort of her partner's touch even as she rested.


	11. In Health

Sherlock worked into the night, his attention fixed upon the screen before him as he conducted further research into the files of Dalton's victims, as Joan Watson lay against him, quite asleep. For the first hour or so Sherlock was careful when typing, cautious not to wake her or rouse her. But after that hour her sleep was so deep and her position so assumed that he no longer felt the need to be so overly cautious, and he worked as usual. Joan remained in her deep slumber, her breathing remaining low and even, as she leaned against him. After several hours of tireless work and no breaks, Sherlock too found himself fighting the battle that Joan had fought several hours earlier. And like her, he too fell victim for it. Shortly after three o'clock in the morning Sherlock's heavy eyelids fell shut, and his muscles relaxed completely as he fell into a deep sleep, his head resting against the back of the couch.

Light shone through the windows which had not been concealed by shutters or curtains, and streamed directly onto the face of Joan Watson. The light warmed her skin and alerted her eyes to the fact that it was morning, and she had fallen asleep. But as she slowly began to come round, she found herself wondering whether she was still dreaming. The moment that the light had woken her from her slumber, she had found herself aware of the fact that the warm, soft object she was resting on was not the overly-feathered and impossibly plump pillows of her hotel bed. And as Joan's eyes quickly snapped open, she became aware of precisely what it was.

Joan's eyes opened instantly, and she found herself staring at the white material and black buttons of Sherlock's shirt, which her left cheek was pressed upon. She swallowed slightly, as she felt her body tense slightly with a combination of surprise and confusion, as she began to remember falling asleep beside him on the couch the night before. But at the present moment she was not asleep beside him, she was asleep _on_ him, which was, in her wary and concerned opinion, a very different thing. Joan's cheek was resting on Sherlock's chest, and she could feel his slow rising breaths and low beating heart beneath her cheek. She was resting on her side, her right leg draped elegantly over the left, her left was positioned uncomfortably beneath her body. Joan's right arm was pressed again her chest, but her hand was splayed tentatively upon Sherlock's chest, just an inch or so beneath her chin. Her palm and fingers were placed delicately on top of him, with such little contact or pressure that she found herself hoping that he did not register her touch. But as she slowly eased herself into a sitting position, removing her face and hand from his chest and quietly easing herself off the couch, she felt certain that she would be in no such luck. Joan's feet came into contact with the soft and comfortable carpet and, despite the pins and needles which caused a dull pain to shoot through her left arm, she eased herself into a standing position and headed towards her bedroom, closing the doors firmly behind her. As they clicked shut obediently behind her, she found herself hoping that he would remain asleep.

He did not.

Sherlock had been awake for about ten minutes before Joan had woken up. He felt her body tense slightly as she came round, which caused the familiar yet indescribable feeling of his body becoming overcome by heat and fear consume him once more. Before he had a chance to consider these feelings or attempt to banish them, he felt her remove herself from him, the warmth of her touch and her body leaving him cold and confused and something else he could not define. He felt her leave the couch, the sound of her feet quietly upon the ground as she made her way towards the bedroom. It was only when he heard the bedroom doors close behind her that he opened his eyes.

Sherlock blinked the remnants of sleep away, and found himself staring at the artificial light glaring at him from the screen of his laptop, which had remained on his lap for the night. He lifted it up and placed it on the table, before leaning back and sighing deeply as he gazes up at the ceiling. A few moments later, the sound of the hot water from the shower could be heard, permeating the silence, and drawing Sherlock's attention to the matter at hand: Joan Watson.

Joan stood motionless in the shower, her eyes blinking languidly as the hot water rushed across her body, causing her to feel more alert and awake. All the while, she was considering the latest development in her confusion and non-definable relationship with Sherlock Holmes. After very little consideration, she had decided that sleeping against him was too intimate. It somehow not only broke but transcended the boundaries they had put up between themselves. And yet, as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, as much as she attempted to force herself to believe something quite different, it had not felt wrong. She turned off the shower and stepped into the bathroom, hoping that the coldness of the room would coax her into believing the rational, logical part of her brain that was screaming at her to stop partaking in a game which had stakes too high for her to play with. Joan reached for a towel for the radiator, wrapping it across her and walking from the bathroom. She sat on the end of her bed, clasped hands in her lap, her head slightly bowed, as she ran over each touch, sensation and feeling from the past four days. She slowly lifted her head and stared at the mirror by the dressing table opposite her, and watched herself as she came to a decision: she would do exactly as she had done on the previous times when their physical contact had caused her to consider the nature of their relationship. She would act as though the act was incidental to their mission, that it was part of the job, that it didn't matter. Her gaze faltered and she found herself staring at her hands, focusing on the stillness of her clasped fingers. _But it did_.

Sherlock considered Joan's departure with his usual level of analysis and professional-standard consideration, spending several minutes running through events, possibilities and statistics in his mind. She had clearly been attempting to remove herself from his company whilst attempting to ensure that he remained asleep. Perhaps she had regretted allowing herself to become so comfortable in his presence. Perhaps her walking away from him was symptomatic of a much larger issue: their growing closeness. As he pondered this, he considered how Joan walking from the room and to her own sleeping quarters was very much like morning-after regrets, only without the pre-dawn sex that it always followed. She left him quietly, and proceeded directly to the shower, to wash herself free of all traces of him. Sherlock sighed and blinked himself from these thoughts, discarding them immediately. Instead, he picks up the laptop and places it back on his lap, staring at the screen blankly for a moment, before placing his hands above the device. His fingers hover over the laptop without moving, as if an invisible and unbreakable barrier is preventing them from reaching the keys. He clenches his fists in frustration and leans heavily upon his hands, his mind racing with tangled thoughts. He was so engaged in disentangling the ever-growing web of confusion that was evolving in his mind, that he did not hear the bedroom doors open behind him.

"Hey" came the calm, familiar and distinctly normal voice of his partner. "You okay?" she asked.

Sherlock could hear her walking around to him as she spoke, the sound of her heels tapping on the floor with her confident step announcing her presence.

"Yes" he replied simply, pressing his lips together in a small smile and leaning back, resting his hands upon his knees as he looked up towards her. There were a few moments of silence between them, and they watched each other closely, as if considering which one of them would broach the forbidden subject first. In the end, it was neither. "I looked deeper into the victim files" he stated simply, turning back towards the screen and gesturing to it theatrically with his right hand. Joan accepted the cue immediately, walking around the sofa and sitting a comfortable distance from him, as he turned the screen towards her. "Out of the one hundred and sixteen victims, these files allege that thirty six young women are deceased." Sherlock paused for a moment, knowing that Joan would need a few moments to process this information. She swallowed, inhaled and nodded in understanding, before staring at the screen with an attentive gaze and hollow expression. "Twelve of those thirty six have been either discovered or legally declared deceased. Of the remaining twenty four, eighteen have been reported missing, and six have not been reported at all. They do not appear in any police files or databases that I have searched. And out of the rest of the young women whose names are in Dalton's files, sixty-five of the eighty have been reported missing."

"So twenty-one of the one hundred and sixteen haven't been reported missing at all" Joan stated. "That's quite high, isn't it? Percentage-wise?"

"Yes, I believe it is" Sherlock stated. "Almost one-fifth have not been reported missing. And they are all girls aged from nineteen to twenty five. Many are from small cities or towns within counties throughout the country, so it is not surprising that the local authorities have not connected the disappearances." Joan nodded in understanding.

"So how do you think Dalton and his associates find these women?" she asked, her voice sounding more confident than she felt. There was a slight pause, which caused her to look towards Sherlock, who drummed his fingers on his knees briefly before turning towards her.

"That is something which I was hoping we could discuss with Catherine Adams" he stated simply, watching Joan for a reaction as he spoke.

"I thought we weren't going to talk to her yet? Until we had something solid to discuss with her?" Joan asked, looking at Sherlock with a slightly perplexed expression. "We agreed that we cannot risk blowing her cover."

"You are quite right, Watson, we cannot, and nor will we" he stated confidently. "But these files reveal a far greater crime, and far more victims, than we had previously believed. These files have the power to bring closure and truth to dozens of families, and we need to find a way to ensure that happens."

"And you think Catherine is the answer?" Joan asked, her confusion clear as she spoke.

"I think that, after having reviewed these files, we have reached the point where we need to approach her" Sherlock stated, his voice low as he spoke slowly.

"Shouldn't we look into this more? I mean, spend some more time studying these files?" she asked.

"That is precisely what I have done, Watson" Sherlock returned. "I worked on these files into the early hours" he added. Joan nodded in response. "I feel that, from an investigative perspective, we require new data in order to develop." Joan considered this for a moment. She understood the need for new information, to broaden or contextualise their current findings. She looked up towards him and nodded in approval.

"We need to figure out a way to make contact with her" Joan stated. "And considering she is never more than five feet from Dalton and his associates, that's not gonna be easy" she continued, her voice trailing off as she spoke.

"Already thought of it, Watson" Sherlock stated in his typically-animated fashion, standing up tall as he spoke. Joan's eyes narrowed in confusion for a moment, before her body tensed slightly.

"Of course you have" she murmured, placing her hands on her knees and pushing herself into a standing position.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, his confusion evident in both his posture and tone. Joan sighed, recovering herself slightly as she stood. She was about to apologise, brush off her comment as if it were meaningless. That is, until he continued to speak. "Watson" he stated, his voice low and slightly scolding. Joan looked up at him with a determined expression, her eyes ablaze as she watched him.

"Last night you condemned me for making a decision under difficult circumstances to assist the investigation. You said how important it was for us to work as part of a team, to make these decisions together, to analyse the risks" she began, keeping her voice low and even, and devoid of accusatory tones. Sherlock nodded in response. "Your main argument was that I put myself in danger. But now, you're considering doing something that is putting someone _else_ in danger without us discussing it first."

"We did discuss it, we _are_ discussing it" Sherlock stated, his voice low and almost patronising.

"This isn't a discussion though, is it?" she asked gently. "Because you already made up your mind. You've clearly given this a lot of thought. You've had enough time to figure out how to approach her before we even talked about it." Sherlock watched her as she stood opposite him, her eyes glassy and her features tense. He had no idea why she was acting this way, so out of character and so annoyed. But she did not seem angry at him, not at all. Her features, words and tone were devoid of all traces of anger. This was something very different. And after watching her for a few moments as she spoke, he believed that he had correctly deduced precisely what it was that was motivating Joan Watson, and driving her current speech and argument: she was hurt.

"After you fell asleep" he began gently, his voice calm and his words tentative. "I began to consider the benefits as well as the dangers of approaching Ms Adams. As I considered the dangers, I also considered ways of approaching her that would minimise the risks to her and to us. In total I came up with five possible ways, but the fourth one is by far the simplest and most subtle" he continued. "I do not see how this is like the issue from last night, Watson. An issue which, until about thirty seconds ago, I believed that we had dealt with" he continued, his voice still gentle and respectful. Joan's gaze faltered slightly and she looked past him and towards Clyde's carry case, blinking a couple of times before returning her gaze to his face.

"You made a decision that could put someone in danger without allowing us to talk about it first-"

"You were asleep" he returned simply.

"You could have woken me" she countered. "Or waited until the morning, or-"

"It is the morning and we did discuss it" he returned.

"_After_ you had already decided" she stated calmly, keeping her voice low and even. "You are suggesting putting Catherine and her daughter in danger. You are considering doing something that could have unforeseen and potentially fatal consequences" she stated, placing her hand on her hip. "So how is this different from last night?" she added, watching as Sherlock shifted slightly on the spot. "Is it because she is an intelligence officer? You think she is more capable of going undercover than I am?" Sherlock watched her for several moments, before lowering his gaze slightly and beginning to speak.

"This has nothing to do with abilities, Watson. I believe that you are more than capable of going undercover and maintaining a role. And as I have already explained, I have given a lot of thought to the potential issues associated with approaching Ms Adams, and I believe that we will be able to hold a rendezvous with her without placing her in... in a considerable amount of danger" he stated, rising his eyes to meet hers.

"You didn't answer my question" she responded, her voice low and quiet.

"It was clearly rhetorical" Sherlock responded simply.

"It really wasn't" she returned, her voice slightly higher than when she had previously spoken. Sherlock exhaled slightly, his eyes still connecting with Joan's, and staring at her with such conviction he felt almost connected to her.

"What exactly is your question?" he asked.

"Why are you so willing to place her in danger, but not allow me to place myself in a similar position?" she asked simply, her voice gentle and calm.

"I am not willing to put anyone in danger, Watson. I have given a great deal of thought to ensuring Ms Adams' safety" he began, watching as Joan's eyes lowered themselves from his once more. "And as much as I understand your frustration" he continued, causing her eyes to meet his once more. "This is not like last night."

"Isn't it?" she asked.

"No."

"Why?" There was a brief pause after Joan's question, and they simply stood opposite each other, waiting expectantly for someone to talk or react. After a few moments, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Because that monster will not be near either of you" he stated simply, his voice distant yet filled with confidence. Joan's features softened slightly and she felt herself become calmer as he spoke. But before he could discuss the matter further, or allow her to pose a question, he changed the subject, in typical Sherlock-fashion, and in a way that made Joan absolutely certain that he would not discuss it with her further. For now, at least. "It's eight-thirty, we need to head down for breakfast" he declared, picking up his jacket from the back of the couch. Joan turned on her heels and walked towards the door, casting a glance in Sherlock's direction.

"You aren't gonna change?" she asked.

"No time" he responded, doing up some of the buttons on his jacket and straightening his collar. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah" she returned, opening the door and walking down the corridor. She pushed the button to the elevator and followed him inside, pressing her back against the lift as it descended. Joan turned to Sherlock, and found that he had removed what appeared to be a hotel napkin on his pocket, and was scribbling on it fiercely with a fountain pen. "What are you doing?"

"Making contact" he replied simply, his eyes not leaving the white paper napkin. "There we are" he stated, removing the nib of his pen from the material, before gazing upon it like it were a lost Rembrandt. Joan edged slightly closer to him and tilted her head to the side to read the message. _Elizabeth. 930 8.81. Drink for yes._ Joan stared at the numbers for several moments, before nodding in understanding.

"You want her to meet us at nine-thirty in room 81 on the eighth floor" she stated. "And if she agrees, she's supposed to take a sip of whatever drink she has?"

"Precisely" he stated, nodding as she spoke.

"And you don't think sending her a note like this is risky?" she asked, her voice respectful but uncertain.

"I wrote it in ink" he stated simply. "Cheap ink, at any rate. Vile. About as strong as one tea bag when shared amongst fifteen thirsty office workers on a break" he stated simply. "Which means that any liquid which gets accidentally spilled upon it would obliterate the words entirely" he stated, looking towards her with a small smile of satisfaction. Joan nodded in understanding, clasping her hands before her as she watched him expectantly.

"And what is in room 81?" she asked, as the elevator came to a stop at the ground floor.

"One of the three staff rooms in the building" he stated simply. "According to Thomas, it will be vacant from nine until ten thirty."

"Okay" she responded, walking closely to him as they headed to the restaurant. As they did so, Sherlock folded the napkin and held it in his palm, glancing around furtively as they walked. A cursory glance of the restaurant confirmed that Catherine, Dalton and his two associates were at their regular table. As Sherlock and Joan stepped into the room, they were instantly greeted by Thomas, who approached them with a broad smile.

"Mr and Mrs Taylor" he grinned, shaking Sherlock's right hand as he spoke. "Everything is in order, I take it?" he asked, looking from Sherlock to Joan.

"Absolutely, yes" Sherlock returned, nodding towards Thomas and punctuating his sentiment with a nod, as the undercover detective led them to their table and passed them two menus. "I'll be back shortly" he assured them, before heading over Dalton's table. Sherlock and Joan satin their usual places and opened their menus, pretending to glance at them as they spoke.

"You handed him the note" Joan muttered, holding the menu slightly away from her as she spoke.

"I did" Sherlock returned.

"And what did he give you?" she returned, her eyes searching for his. Sherlock's eyes rose and he met her gaze, his eyebrows raising in impression.

"Excellent, Watson, really" he stated, closing the menu and placing it on the table. "Thomas gave me his key-card, which allows us access to the staff-room" he stated, his voice low and wary. Joan nodded in understanding, before turning her attention back to Thomas, who was walking from Dalton's table and towards the bar. He spent a short while preparing drinks, placing them on napkins and arranging them neatly on a tray. And suddenly Sherlock's plan made sense. Thomas carried the tray over to Dalton's table, handing Catherine her glass first, as well as the napkin beneath it. He then gave the rest of the table a glass each and a large, expensive bottle of champagne, before walking briskly back towards the bar. Sherlock and Joan watched Catherine closely, and although the agent recovered herself well, she had clearly noticed something on the napkin that surprised her. She read it quickly, before crumpling it up in her hand and taking a single sip of her drink, which she then put back on the table. Catherine then proceeded to use the napkin to wipe her mouth, before folding it up several times, so that the thick tissue-like material began to tear apart. Dalton and his associates were apparently oblivious to this, and occupied their time by pouring out the champagne that Thomas had presented them with. Joan felt her stomach clench as she wondered what they could be celebrating.

"We have forty-five minutes, Watson" Sherlock stated. "We'll leave in thirty-five, and take the stairs. That way, we will avoid being followed by any security personnel or cronies of Dalton."

"Security guards don't like stairs?" Joan asked, causing Sherlock to look up at her with a deadpan expression.

"Dalton's security personnel drink cheap beer, smoke like chimneys and scarcely move from their table except to urinate or oggle the waitresses" Sherlock stated quickly, picking up the menu as he spoke. "They do not strike me as the type to climb stairs when an elevator can be used" he stated.

"I suppose that plan has the added advantage of ensuring that Catherine is not seen near or in an elevator with us" Joan stated, taking a sip from her glass of water. "She'll almost certainly take an elevator. She's wearing six inch stilettos." Sherlock rose his eyebrow slightly and nodded in agreement, before placing his menu down and glancing around him.

"Where is Thomas?" he asked, looking across the restaurant and towards the bar. A few minutes later a waiter whom both Joan and Sherlock recognised came over, note-pad and pen in hand. Sherlock stared at him with eyes of fire, causing Joan to tilt her head to the side slightly and cast him a reproving glance. The waiter was, in fact, the clumsy individual who had nearly sent Joan flying in the pool room due to his carelessness.

"Sir, madam" the waiter began, feigning confidence as he spoke. "May I take your orders?" Sherlock glanced briefly at Joan, who was giving him a stern look of warning. He inhaled deeply and turned towards the waiter, and for a moment Joan felt certain that Sherlock was about to unleash a particularly scathing and sarcasm-laden attack upon the poor young man before them. Thankfully for all involved, he did not. Sherlock gave his order clearly and politely, and even went as far as thanking the waiter afterwards. Joan, who was slightly stunned by his politeness and tolerance, took a few moments to compose herself before placing her own order.

"Oh, excuse me, where's Thomas?" she asked after ordering. "He was going to help us with an enquiry about dinner tonight."

"I don't know, ma'am" the young man replied somewhat nervously, but a reassuring smile from Joan placated him slightly. "He went to the wine cellar to get some more champagne, then came into the kitchen and asked me to take over in here. Said he needed to deal with something. I guess we're running low on something." He stated simply, nodding as he turned around. "Oh" he stated, turning on the spot to face Sherlock and Joan. "And what would you both like to drink?"

"Coffee, please. Black" Joan replied, offering him the same kindly look of reassurance she had done earlier. He nodded in understanding before turning back to Sherlock, who had picked up his phone and was scrolling through it.

"Tea please, four sugars" he stated, before turning from the waiter and back to his phone. "In a mug, if you please, instead of on the floor" he added, as he continued to scroll through his phone. The waiter nodded sheepishly before disappearing back behind the bar.

"Was that really necessary?" Joan sighed.

"Not especially, no" Sherlock stated absent-mindedly, before placing his phone back upon the table.

"What are you doing?" she asked gently.

"Texting Thomas. He said he'd be back" he stated.

"It sounds like he's sorting something out to do with the wine. There's another big function tonight, he's probably making sure the bar is well stocked" Joan stated reassuringly, sensing some concern in Sherlock's tone and demeanour.

"A respectable endeavour indeed" Sherlock stated, nodding as he spoke. He glanced down at his phone, which revealed that the time was ten-to-nine. "We have half an hour until we need to leave" he stated, watching as the waiter brought their drinks over. "Until then, we must act completely normal, as we usually do a breakfast" he added. "If Dalton or his associates suspect anything, Catherine would be in danger." Joan nodded in understanding, thanking the waiter for their drinks, and taking a tentative sip.

Sherlock and Joan spent the next twenty minutes talking, eating and making deductions about their fellow diners. Sherlock also glanced at his phone every two to three minutes, and seemed to grow slightly more unsettled each time that he glanced up from it, which Joan took to mean that he had not received a response from Thomas. At precisely twenty-past nine, Sherlock and Joan rose from their seats and headed from the restaurant, bypassing the elevators and heading directly for the stairs. Sherlock pushed open the heavy door and held it open for Joan, who thanked him as she passed through, walking up the stairs ahead of him. Joan walked confidently up the stairs, and they walked up two floors quickly and quietly, whilst being careful to monitor any others who were around. There was no one.

"Which floor are we on?" Joan asked, pausing for a moment mid-flight, as she tried to see over the top of the bannister before her.

"Three" Sherlock stated. "Only five more to go" he stated, watching with amusement as Joan turned to face him with an unamused expression. "Well, technically it's four and a half, but-" Joan's features softened and she suppressed a laugh, as she held on to the bannister and walked briskly up the rest of the stairs. As she got three steps from the ground on the third floor she came to an abrupt stop, faltered slightly, and almost fell backwards. Sherlock, who had been two steps behind her, reacted instantly, stepping up one step and securing her with his right arm, whilst holding on to the bannister to support them both with his left. "Watson?" he breathed, as he felt her body tense in his grasp. Joan exhaled a shaky breath before extricating herself from his hold and walking slowly up the last two steps. Sherlock followed her slowly, his hand poised behind her back as she walked. But as they reached the top of the flight, it became clear what had startled her and caused her to lose her footing.

In the centre of the ground on the tiled floor lay the body of Thomas, who was bleeding profusely from a wound to his heart, caused by a large kitchen knife which had been thrust between his ribs.


	12. To Love

A/N: Hey everyone, sorry for the delay in updating, it's been one of those weeks! This chapter is a little longer and quite 'busy', sorry about that!

I hope you're enjoying the story so far, and I hope it's not becoming too convoluted or confusing (it's so much easier to think of an idea that to construct it, isn't it?). I am wondering whether the characters are becoming slightly OOC, which tends to happen in my fiction. So if you think they are please let me know and I'll do what I can to improve it :)

As always, please let me know if you have any issues/questions/complaints/advice, all are greatly appreciated :)

Thank you always,

HQ21

Sherlock and Joan stared at the body before them watching as the blood continued to flow across the tiled floor, and pooling beneath Thomas's body, giving his torso a sticky, red circular outline. Without a word, Sherlock guided Joan to the side of the floor, against a wall a safe distance from Thomas's body. She moved willingly, her movements slow and her limbs heavy, as she leaned against the wall and ran her medical eyes across the body before her. As the blood was still pooling it was clear that he had not been dead for long. He had been in the restaurant less than thirty minutes before, which provided them with a very workable time-line. Joan's eyes moved from the blood and the knife to his considering his body. One of his legs was straight and the other was at an angle, his arms spread by his sides. His head was titled to the side, and his eyes were open. His piercing blue gaze was still captivating, and even through death his wide-eyes lit up his handsome face and dark features. As Joan stared into his eyes, she considered how, if she knelt beside him and felt his hand, he would still be quite warm. _If only we had gotten here sooner_, she thought.

"Watson" came the low and gentle voice of Sherlock, causing her to blink briefly and turn mechanically towards him. She must have taken too long to respond, as she felt his hand caress her back in a reassuring manner, before he moved in front of her, shielding her from the sight of Thomas's body, which he did with his own. "Watson" he repeated, his voice slightly firmer as his eyes ran across her features, which were awash with a combination of guilt and grief.

"We should have been here" she stated in a low, quiet voice which was only just perceptible. "We should have prevented this."

"How?" Sherlock asked gently, his hand stilling on her lower back. Joan felt the warmth from his touch radiate throughout her body, and she felt herself calming ever so slightly. But then the sight of Thomas's clenched fingers and deep red blood caused her whole body to tense once more. "How could we have prevented this?" Sherlock asked gently, causing Joan to look up and meet his gaze. "Thomas's cell phone is in his right-hand pocket. He did not answer it when I attempted to contact him, and he did not withdraw it from his pocket when he was attacked" he stated gently, watching as Joan considered his words. "He had no time to, Watson. The incidents which led up to his death happened so quickly and without warning that he did not have time to alert us or to summon help."

"That doesn't mean we couldn't have done something" Joan stated. "From my dance with Dalton last night, you and I both knew of his knowledge of us, and we have been taking that into account. But we didn't know he knew about Thomas. We should have warned him."

"We cannot be certain that this is Dalton's doing" Sherlock stated simply.

"It can't be a coincidence" Joan countered. "The cop posing as a waiter is killed during an active investigation into some guests at the hotel" she continued, looking up at Sherlock as she spoke.

"You know my feelings on coincidences, Watson" he stated gently. "I did not say that this tragedy is not related, I merely suggested that it may not be Dalton's work" he added, his voice softening as he spoke, before pausing for a few moments as she took in his words. "I need to call Captain Gregson, he'll need to secure the scene" he began, withdrawing his phone from his pocket. "We need to find out what happened, and quickly. It is possible that Thomas discovered something, or believed he did, at least."

"That makes sense" Joan replied. "But why would he be here? On the staircase?" Sherlock scrolled through his contacts list and dialled the number, pressing the phone to his ear as he turned back towards Joan.

"I expect that whatever it was that he discovered, was something he wished to communicate to us in private" Sherlock returned. "He did not wish to be seen heading to our apartment so he took the stairs. He has a key to our room, he was probably planning on meeting us there." Before Joan could ask a question or comment upon his theory, Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as Gergson picked up the phone. Joan leaned against the wall and considered Thomas's body throughout the duration of the call. Her attention was only drawn away from her medical analysis when she felt Sherlock's warm body as he leaned against the wall next to her. His arm contacted hers briefly, and his hips were beside hers, in one of the many incidences where the previously forbidden physical contact between them had been breached. They stood beside each other, perfectly still and perfectly silent, for several moments, as the shared warmth and comfort of their barely connected bodies provided them with a degree of reassurance.

For the next five minutes or so they stood in perfect silence, side by side, their emotional well-being being sustained by the small amount of physical contact they were sharing. As they stood together, their attention was not upon each other, but upon their fallen colleague, who was lying lifelessly upon the ground before them. It seemed odd, really, almost macabre. But to Sherlock and Joan, it represented their utmost respect for the man, and their grief at his untimely demise. They both knew that the best way to honour his memory was to uncover the truth about his death and bring his killer to justice, before solving the case that they had been collaborating upon, and on which Thomas had been absolutely invaluable. Sherlock could still feel the edges of the key-card to the staffroom in his pocket pressing against his thigh.

Joan considered Thomas's body from an analytical medical perspective. He had sustained a single fatal stab wound to the chest, from a kitchen knife with an eight-inch blade, which had almost certainly penetrated his heart. His eyes were wide and glassy, with the familiar paleness of death creeping across his skin, which seemed to be losing its natural skin tone by the minute. There were no defensive marks on his hands or wrists, and there were no signs of bruising or lacerations on him. The attack must have been quick, unexpected. Joan frowned slightly at this. How could someone sneak up on someone in the middle of a tall staircase? Joan's eyes widened slightly as she considered another possibility: it was someone he knew. Was that the reason for his secrecy, his failure to notify Sherlock and Joan immediately? Was the person who killed him someone linked to the current case, but someone who they did not suspect? Perhaps he had identified the mysterious American gentleman. _But how? _She thought, inhaling deeply and releasing the breath in a slow and gradual manner before turning to the side. Unbeknownst to Joan, her partner had been considering the same factors that she had, and had arrived at the same conclusion a few moments before.

Joan removed her gaze from Sherlock and looked back down at Thomas, and the blood which had pooled around him. There was something about the situation which did not seem real to her, lie she was refusing to believe it. Thirty minutes before she had spoken to Thomas personally. He was calm, composed and displaying no signs of anxiety or concealment. His eyes were bright and his features were handsome and healthy. And now he was laying lifeless six feet away from her. Something about this sight made her feel a pang of guilt unrelated to her perceived failure to protect her colleague. She felt overcome by guilt and frustration at the other failures she associated with herself, and was rebuking herself harshly for her part in the conflict between her and Sherlock over the past couple of days, the associated tension of which still hung heavy in the air. As she glanced down at the knife, the blood, the paleness and the lifeless eyes before her, her words and Sherlock's swam in her mind, their tones and associated memories burning in her mind, to the extent it almost caused her physical pain. She found her gaze falling upon the eyes of Thomas, whose piercing blue gaze reminded her ever so slightly of Sherlock. As she considered this, she imagined Sherlock's eyes upon the corpse. She pictured the body of her partner laying bloody and lifeless upon the ground, causing her guilt and fear to almost consume her. After a minute or so of careful consideration, she finally decided to address the subject.

"You were right" she said simply, her words breaking the intense silence of the atmosphere, and causing Sherlock to turn towards her immediately, his face slightly tense with confusion. "What you said about my accepting Dalton's offer of a dance. It was a risk and it was something that I could have easily gotten out of. We gained little information from it and it was a big price to pay for what I felt certain would be a small reward" she stated, adjusting her position slightly as she spoke. "And this morning, I-" she began, breaking off as her eyes caught sight of Thomas's body before her. It began to feel wrong, inappropriate, almost, for her to be talking to Sherlock about this now. Disrespectful, even. But was it? "I was out of line this morning. I was angry about last night, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you like I did" she stated, speaking faster than before, as she looked up at Sherlock, who was watching her with a patient expression. "I'm sorry" she added gently. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, his eyes holding her gaze steadily, before turning so that his side was pressed to the wall, and he was staring directly at her.

"I fear that our current circumstances are causing you to be unduly hard on yourself, Watson" he stated gently, his arm brushing lightly against hers. "And the events and associated issues you refer to have already been discussed and dealt with" he stated reassuringly, a warming kindness present in his tone. "No apology from you is necessary, I assure you" he stated, as Joan felt his hand drift lightly down her arm, before reaching her hand and lacing their fingers together. She hesitated for a moment, before squeezing his hand in return. "I, on the other hand, feel that my conduct last night still needs to be accounted for and sufficiently explained" he continued, running his thumb gently along the side of her palm. "And I assure you that we will be able to discuss it fully, at a more appropriate time, of course" he stated, his voice low and gentle. "But for now, all I can offer you is my sincerest and most humble apology" he added. "I'm sorry, Watson." Joan's gaze lingered upon his eyes for a moment, and she clasped his hand tightly with her own.

"No apology from you is necessary" she repeated, her voice low but sincere. "I assure you."

Before Sherlock could respond, the doors at the bottom of the stairs which separated the floors burst open, and the familiar figures of Gregson and Bell began to ascend the stairs, followed by several officers. Sherlock and Joan removed their hands from each other instantly, and Sherlock turned from her and headed towards Gregson, who holstered his weapon and glanced from Sherlock to Joan, then to Thomas. Sherlock's features darkened for a moment, before his mouth clenched and his jaw set, and his chest rose and fell. For Thomas to have been assigned on this particular mission, he must have been hand-picked by Captain Gregson. He was clearly a man of skill, merit and integrity. _He was_, Joan corrected herself.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Captain" Joan stated kindly as she walked towards him. Gregson nodded in recognition, his eyes not leaving Thomas's body.

"His dad, Ronnie, was my partner when I first made Detective" Gregson stated absent-mindedly. "I took a bullet for him once, three months before Thomas here was born" he stated, indicating towards the man before him. "Ronnie's wife insisting on naming their baby after me." There was a respectful silence which remained for several moments as those present considered Gregson's words, and mourned the loss of such a close colleague and friend.

"I assure you, Captain" began Sherlock in a solemn and sincere tone. "We will find out who did this. And we will solve the case that Thomas had worked with us on in such a dedicated and skilled manner." Gregson stared at Sherlock for a moment, surprised at how genuinely he appeared to be speaking. He nodded in acknowledgement, casting a final glance at Thomas's body, before turning to his colleagues.

"Jeffries, Hastings" he began in a low and hollow tone, addressing the uniformed police officers standing in the middle of the staircase. "Secure the scene and wait with forensics. Bell and I will set up base in the restaurant area and begin interviewing guests." The officers nodded immediately, removing their hats as they walked up the stairs towards their fallen colleague. Gregson watched the officers for a few moments before turning back towards Sherlock and Joan. "Despite this" Gregson began, swallowing briefly as he composed himself. "Despite what has happened, we need to make sure your cover is not blown. So Bell and I will interview the guests, then call for you two to come in for your interview last. That way we'll be able to discuss anything we may discover in our interviews." Joan nodded in agreement.

"Very well, Captain" Sherlock stated. "Watson and I will return to our suite. Please let us know when you require our presence."

"I'll send a uniform up for you" Gregson stated solemnly. "It'll look more authentic, procedural, if the other guests and especially Dalton see you paraded through the restaurant with a police officer" he continued. "We'll start with Dalton" he stated with conviction, turning towards Bell. Bell nodded, placing his phone in his pocket and heading down the stairs to the main reception area. Gregson turned back to Sherlock and Joan, who were waiting patiently for him to speak. "I wanna get the scene analysed and the body removed as quickly as possible" Gregson stated mechanically. "I want a thorough investigation, and I want cops monitoring the stairwell and the entrances and exits to this building. But other than that, I do not want a high police presence here. My guys will be nearby, but not on the premises. Despite what has happened, I don't think it's gonna help us with finding Thomas's killer, and it could cause Dalton to panic or abandon his plans, placing those young women in danger" Gregson added. "Which is the last thing Thomas would have wanted." Sherlock and Joan nodded in agreement.

"Of course" replied Joan gently, taking a step towards Gregson and placing her hand comfortingly upon his shoulder. "We'll find out what happened to Thomas, and we'll help those girls" Joan stated confidently. "I promise". Gregson placed his hand on top of hers, patted it twice, and removed it. She copied his movement and took a step back.

"Thank you" he stated, nodding towards Joan and Sherlock. "You guys better get outa here, before someone sees you with us. I'll tell the other guests we were alerted to the body by a call from a fellow guest." Sherlock nodded, before walking past Gregson and down the staircase, closely followed by Joan. They headed directly along the corridor and towards the elevator, travelling the remaining few floors to their room in complete silence, as they processed the events of the past few minutes. The doors pinged open and Sherlock ad Joan departed, heading directly for their room. Joan picked her key-card from her clutch bag and unlocked the door, stepping inside the suite and heading over to the armchair beside the table. As she placed her clutch bag upon the table and sat down, she attempted to calm the racing thoughts which were battling each other for dominance inside her mind. Sherlock walked directly to the mini fridge, removing two bottles of fresh orange juice and handing one to Joan. She accepted it, removing the cap and holding the bottle to her lips, before finding her body registering its adversity to consuming anything. She placed the cap back on the bottle and held it in her hands, as she leaned back into the chair. Sherlock placed his own drink upon the table, before seating himself on the couch opposite her. After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock spoke.

"I feel that it is quite likely that we have both arrived at the conclusion that Thomas's attacked was someone associated with the case. Possibly the American individual we have, as yet, been unable to identify" Sherlock began, his tone low and respectful. Joan nodded in agreement, lifting her head to face him directly as he spoke. "It is likely that he learned something which could implicate either the American gentleman, Dalton and his associates, or some other individual associated with the kidnapped women. He was probably attempting to come to our room to leave a message, or possibly to hide out, until we returned. His reasons for being on the staircase are unknown. But a review of the CCTV from the bar, restaurant, lobby and stairwell should provide some answers." Joan nodded once more, leaning forward and placing her drink besides Sherlock's on the table.

"It seems the most plausible explanation" she reasoned, perching on the edge of her seat as she spoke, her hands clasped in her lap. "But Dalton, his associates and Catherine Adams were in the restaurant with us during the time he must have been killed in, which rules them out."

"Them personally, yes" Sherlock conceded. "But not in terms of their liability. If Dalton or one of his cronies ordered Thomas to be killed, they would be just as guilty as the individual who wielded the knife."

"True" Joan agreed, leaning back slightly, her eyes drifting to the ceiling for a moment. "One of Dalton's security guys could've killed him, if Dalton was worried he was getting too close. He may have thought he identified the American guy, or overheard something about the deal itself. Staff have the ability to be all around the hotel at all times, who knows what they overhear. It would make sense that Thomas saw or heard something that was important, and that he was killed in order to keep secret."

"Yes" Sherlock agreed. "Whatever the information or evidence, Thomas acquired it sometime in the twenty-five minutes between him sitting us at our table and his body being discovered. That gives us a very narrow window." Before Joan could respond, there was a series of knocks upon the door to their suite. Joan sat up straight and stared at the door, as Sherlock rose immediately from the couch and made his way towards it, staring through the peep hole for a moment, before stepping back and opening it. "Please, come in" he said politely, standing out of the way.

"Thank you" greeted an unfamiliar voice, as an attractive and well-dressed blonde woman entered the room. Sherlock closed the door behind her and walked with her to the couch, indicating towards it.

"Please" he stated chivalrously, indicating towards the couch. The woman nodded in assent, before sitting herself in the middle of the couch. Sherlock walked directly towards Joan, standing by the left-hand armrest, and leaning against the chair. "Thank you for coming, Miss Adams" he stated pleasantly. "I expect you've been informed of the reason for our previous meeting being somewhat altered." Catherine adjusted herself on the couch, placing her hands in her lap and looking from Joan to Sherlock with intelligent eyes.

"A Detective informed me that a hotel employee has been murdered this morning" she began, her voice low and sombre. "When he explained that the murder had occurred on the staircase I knew that you would not be able to make our meeting where you had originally suggested. I also knew that the police would not bring in their consultants immediately for questioning" she added, causing Joan to look briefly towards Sherlock before facing the woman before her once more. "You might as well have had 'cop' tattooed across your foreheads" she added. "The police wanted to interview Dalton and his companions first, so I used the opportunity to slip away and come to meet you here. I cannot stay for long, you understand. If Dalton leaves that interview and notices I am gone" she began, pausing briefly as she looked once more from Joan to Sherlock. "There will be more than one dead body in this hotel" she added, before leaning back slightly and watching the consultants expectantly.

"How did you know who we are?" Joan asked.

"The organisation I work for is familiar with your work, Miss Watson" she explained amiably. "You are both incredibly skilled, and have assisted us on multiple occasions" she stated. "Your files are as thick as that brown carry-case on the table" she added.

"I'd imagine they are" stated Sherlock, causing Catherine to turn towards him. Before he could continue, Catherine began to speak.

"And how, might I ask" she began, glancing at them both with curious eyes, "did you know who I am?" Sherlock glanced down at Joan, who unclasped her hands and leaned forwards slightly. She explained how they searched the rooms of Catherine and Dalton on the day of their arrival, and that she found several pictures of a young girl growing up, a girl called 'Penny'. Catherine swallowed at this point, her eyes narrowing a fraction as she continued to listen to Joan explain how she and Sherlock made the connection between Penny and one of the missing girls, and how this led to the revealing of Catherine's true identity. Sherlock then took over, explaining the evidence they had acquired and the progress they had made in their current investigation.

"You merit your reputations within the world of intelligence" Catherine stated simply. "Congratulations."

"I'm sorry for the intrusion" Joan stated, causing the older woman to glance up at her immediately. "I really am. But what we're trying to accomplish means that we have to step over those kind of boundaries. Our concern is the well-being of the young women who are being abducted and abused by Dalton and his gang" she stated, her voice low but sincere. "And I think you want the same thing too." Catherine nodded once, before glancing from Joan to Sherlock.

"I have just a few minutes before I need to leave, so I'll keep it brief, concise and to the point" she stated, straightening her skirt as she leaned back. "Dalton knows who you both are. He knew it before he coaxed you into dancing with him. What he does not know, is how far you have both got in the investigation. He doesn't know his files have been copied, that's certain. Of course, they are inadmissible in court-"

"We understand that" Joan replied. "Our immediate concern is the well-being of the victims."

"Quite" Catherine replied, pressing her lips together and clasping her hands in her lap once more. "Dalton has not made any attempt to have you both harmed or derailed, simply because he cannot afford to have attention attracted towards him. The stay here was supposed to be brief, to orchestrate the transfer of a dozen or so young women into Dalton's clutches. He secured the deal last night, though he has not revealed to me the details. I do not know his American associate, nor do I know how they communicated last night. But they did" she stated, meeting the eyes of both Sherlock and Joan as they spoke. "Dalton and his chums took some champagne bottles to his room and they appeared to be discussing plans to depart tomorrow. Dalton does not believe you are a risk to his operation. He informed me that we will have what he 'requires' by tomorrow night, after which we will leave promptly" she added, glancing once more from Sherlock to Joan. "And that, I'm afraid, is all the information I am able to give you" she stated, rising from her seat as she spoke. Before she could leave, Sherlock took a step towards her.

"The waiter who was killed this morning" he began, causing Catherine to look up at him expectantly. "He was an undercover police officer who was working with us" he continued, watching as Catherine's eyes widened in surprise for a moment, before she recovered herself completely. "From your expression I would wager that Dalton and his associates did not know this."

"I do not believe so, no" she responded immediately, her voice lower and more sombre than it had been. "I feel quite sure they would have told me if they were. They would want me to be especially guarded around him if they knew his true identity" she explained, watching as Sherlock nodded in response. "I am truly sorry" she stated sincerely. Sherlock nodded and thanked her, before escorting her to the door. As she was about to leave, she reached into her bag and pulled out a card, pressing it to his palm as they shook hands. "Should you require to contact me again, please call this number" she stated, as she stepped into the corridor. "It is much more direct and far less indiscreet that ink on a napkin." Sherlock smiled briefly and nodded in return, as Catherine walked briskly down the corridor and towards the elevator.

"What did you think, Watson?" Sherlock asked as he walked back towards the couch and took up Catherine's former seat.

"I think she's dedicated, efficient and desperate to find her daughter" Joan stated sombrely. "She's highly skilled and intelligent and I'm sure we can trust her."

"I agree" Sherlock stated in response. "It is fortunate that we have acquired her as an associate." Joan rose an eyebrow and nodded in agreement, before beginning to speak once more.

"We should look into the CCTV footage from this building whilst we wait" she began. "Gregson's interviews could take hours, we should get a head-start on the video" Sherlock nodded in agreement, drawing his laptop to his side and reviewing the data. Sherlock and Joan spent the next couple of hours reviewing CCTV footage from the hotel, beginning with the restaurant footage, then moving on to the foyer footage and the cameras outside the main staircase. There was no CCTV on the staircase itself, but Sherlock and Joan had plenty to be reviewing whilst they waited for Gregson. The CCTV footage revealed that Thomas seated Sherlock and Joan, spoke to other guests and then headed into the kitchen, emerging a minute or so later and heading into the wine cellar. He left the wine cellar ninety seconds later, walking briskly through the restaurant and foyer to the staircase. It upheld Leo's claims that Thomas went to the wine cellar then departed to check something, possibly to check that the wine cellar was sufficiently stocked. A brief call down to reception confirmed that, on the top floor of the building, there was a small reserve of the more expensive wines, which staff had access to and were permitted to take down to the wine cellar when required. Sherlock and Joan considered the possibility that Thomas was heading to the top floor for the wine, but could not understand why he did not take the elevator. Before they could ponder the issue further, there was a sharp knock at the door, which Sherlock answered immediately.

Two uniformed officers stood on the other side of the door, and escorted Sherlock and Joan downstairs via the elevator. As the doors of the elevator prepared to open at the ground floor Joan felt Sherlock's hand upon her lower back, and leaned into his touch as he guided her through the foyer and into the restaurant. As she felt his hand on her lower back, she considered how the small degrees of physical contact they had shared recently had gone from being of professional necessity to emotional ones: they had first been required to put on a physical display with one another to maintain their cover, but as the days had progressed, it had developed into something quite different. Sherlock's hand on her lower back was almost certainly 'for show', but the warmth and delicacy of his hand on her back, and the memories of the other forms of physical contact they had shared recently, left her wondering if there was actually something greater to it. But as they walked into the dining room Joan's thoughts on the subject were dispelled, and her professional and analytical gaze passed curiously across the restaurant area and its occupants.

The few remaining individuals were walking around the room, whispering between themselves as they departed, casting furtive and suspicious glances at their fellow guests. The room was almost completely vacant, save for a few lingering guests and members of staff, who glanced up at Sherlock and Joan briefly, before diverting their attention from them. When they got half-way through the room, Joan's phone began to vibrate in her clutch bag. She opened it hastily and dug into her bag, scattering the items inside, as she removed her phone. The caller ID revealed it was Andrew who was attempting to call her. She sighed briefly, rejecting the call and placing her cell phone back in her clutch bag, and snapping it shut.

The police officers led Sherlock and Joan through the restaurant and to a small staff room at the back, in which Captain Gregson and Detective Bell were engaged in quiet conversation. Upon hearing them enter, Gregson turned from Gregson and indicated for them to enter. Sherlock and Joan entered the room and the door was closed behind them.

"Take a seat" Gregson stated, indicating towards the couch with his eyes. Joan felt Sherlock's hand linger on her back for a moment, and was somewhat surprised to feel his hand caress her tenderly for a moment, in what she correctly assumed was intended as a reassuring gesture, before he removed his hand from her and they took up their seats. Gregson and Bell drew two chairs opposite them, and the Captain proceeded directly to the matter at hand.

"No one seems to know anything" he began. "We interviewed all the guests who were present in the hotel, and have contacted the others, who will be meeting us at the station at some point during the day. We also interviewed all the on-shift employees, who seem to check out. The only thing of any use was from a guy called Leo, who worked with Thomas this morning. He claims that Thomas went into the wine cellar then left the restaurant, which he presumed was to arrange for some new alcohol to be brought to the cellar."

"That's what he told us this morning, before we realised what had happened" Joan confirmed. "Sherlock and I looked at the CCTV footage from the hotel, which shows Thomas heading from the restaurant to the staircase. We think he was on his way to the top floor to collect some more wine for this evening when he was attacked."

"From the top floor?" asked Bell curiously.

"There is a wine cellar on the top floor which homes the most expensive brands the hotel stocks" Sherlock explained. "They're kept upstairs for security reasons, and to prevent accidental usage or breakage. All staff have access to the room." Bell nodded in understanding.

"Sounds plausible" Bell stated.

"So you think Thomas was heading upstairs for some bottles of wine when he was attacked?" Gregson asked. "Why didn't he just use the elevator?"

"We don't know" Joan responded. "From the CCTV we reviewed two of the three elevators on the bottom floor were in use, but the third was not. And there was no rush to get the bottles as they would not be needed before tonight, unless specifically requested. At first we thought he may have discovered something which led to him being killed, which is still a possibility."

"Yeah, that's the angle we're workin'" Gregson confirmed. "The ME has been and taken Thomas's body to the morgue. We'll have the post-mortem rushed, results should be ready in the morning, I'll email you the specifics. I'm gonna have a couple officers out front and some out back, with a few observing the hotel from adjacent buildings. Bell and I are heading back to the precinct to handle the rest of the interviews. You call straight away if you find somethin', okay?"

"Of course" Sherlock replied. "Captain, in relation to the current case, we have made some headway regarding the Catherine/Elizabeth issue which I emailed you about last night" Sherlock began. Gregson listened attentively as Sherlock explained the details of their meeting with Catherine, and seemed to agree with them that she was a potential ally. After their discussion, Gregson slowly rose from his seat, which Detective Bell followed.

"Oh" Gregson stated. "A source of mine from Interpol sent me some grainy CCTV footage of the man they believe is this American guy who has the fourteen missing girls" Gregson began, digging in his pocket and removing a red memory stick, which he handed to Sherlock. "You can't make out his face, and the images are very low-quality and grainy. They are from an undercover cop in Russia, who filmed a meeting between the traffickers he was working with and a mysterious American. I only got it this morning and our tech guys are going over it now, but it may be of some use to you. If you recognised... I dunno, the profile or features or... something, anything, about him, then let me know. Got it?"

"Yes, Captain" Sherlock returned politely. "Watson and I will review the footage and get back to you immediately." Gregson nodded, as Bell crossed the room and held the door open for them. Sherlock's hand was instantly upon Joan's lower back, and he guided her through the restaurant and foyer and towards the elevator. As the elevator doors shut behind them and began carrying them to their destination, Joan felt Sherlock's finger splay across her lower back for a moment, before pausing hesitantly. A moment later, she felt Sherlock's touch upon her back strengthen slightly, as he moved his hand gently across her back and towards her hip, where it rested. Without a word or a glance in his direction, Joan responded to the contact, leaning lightly against his side, before relaxing into him. The contact, as before, was of emotional necessity. It had been increasing during their case, and the recent death of their colleague had caused them to search for and accept further contact. The barriers between them, of what the previous rules regarding their levels of physical contact had been, were crumbling, the dust and remnants of them increasing by the day. The only thing that was certain was that the contact was mutual, appreciated, and necessary. As the elevator doors pinged open before them, Sherlock's hand moved back to the centre of her lower back, and he guided her back towards the door.

Joan opened her clutch bag and began to look through it, searching in vain for her hotel key card. As she was searching Sherlock used his own to unlock their door, and she passed in wordlessly, her hands still searching through the bag. Sherlock watched as she walked over to the couch, pouring the contents of her clutch bag out and searching through them, as he closed the door behind them.

"Everything alright, Watson?" he asked.

"Yeah, I..." she began, placing some of the items back into the bag. "It's my key-card I... I can't find it" she muttered, before placing the clutch bag on the couch and leaning back slightly as she thought. "The restaurant" she sighed.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked, walking around the couch.

"I got a call from Andrew when I was in the restaurant. I was rummaging in my bag and must've knocked the key-card out" she stated in frustration, rising from the couch. As she did so, she was standing directly opposite Sherlock, their bodies so close that their stomachs and thighs met, causing their bodies to radiate with warmth and their eyes to widen. Joan met Sherlock's gaze, observing how dilated his pupils were. _If this was two years ago, I'd be breaking out the drug tests_ she thought, as she blinked a couple of times and lowered her gaze. _But if this was two years ago, __**this**__ wouldn't be happening_... "I'm gonna go back to the restaurant and see if it's there" Joan stated, stepping past him and walking through the living area. "Whilst I'm down there I'll see if Leo is behind the bar. He's the last person to have seen Thomas, he may know more than he realises."

"Very well, Watson" Sherlock replied, removing the memory stick from his pocket and inserting it into his laptop, which he pulled onto his lap as the files loaded. "I will begin going over this lamentable footage, although from the Captain's description I am not overly hopeful."

"Well, good luck" Joan stated as she walked towards the door. "You might find something Interpol and the NYPD have missed."

"I don't believe in luck, Watson!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, causing Joan to smile slightly as she opened the door and headed down the corridor.

As soon as the elevator doors closed behind her Joan leaned against the cool mirror, closed her eyes and sighed. It was only one o'clock and it had already been an incredibly frustrating, tragic and confusing day. Every time she allowed herself time to think of something apart from the case, she found the image of Thomas's lifeless eyes returning to her. And when she finally rid herself of the distressing image, she found herself facing the confusing nature of her current relationship with Sherlock which, at the moment, neither of them had the time nor the inclination to address.

The elevator doors pinged open before her, and she pushed herself off the glass and walked confidently through the corridor, heading directly to the restaurant. As she walked through the doorway she noticed that the room was completely empty. A brief cursory glance soon revealed her key-card to be in the centre of the floor, where she had walked with Sherlock. The memory of the walk, of his hand upon her back, on her hip, of their bodies pressed together, swam in her mind as she crossed the room and bent over to recover her lost key-card. As she clasped it in her hands and was about to stand, she heard the sound of breaking glass.

Joan stood up quickly, and identified the sound as having come from the room behind the open door behind the bar., which she knew to be the wine-cellar. Joan paused for a moment, staring at the unattended bar. Although Leo was not behind the bar, it was entirely possible, and highly likely, that he was in the cellar. Gregson had not closed the hotel for the evening, and despite the tragic events of the morning, the dinner arrangements for the evening would still need to be attended to. Joan held onto her key-card and walked across the restaurant, behind the bar and to the open door. Before she even reached the door, the scent of bleach drifted from the cellar and to her nose. She narrowed her eyes in confusion, as she took a few tentative steps towards the door. There was a small set of steps which led into the dark room, which was dimly lit and could not be seen well from the bar itself. As Joan began to walk down the steps, she heard a strange clicking sound which she recognised but could not immediately place. She crept slowly down the stairs, and by the time she reached the bottom step and walked into the room, she remembered what the sound was: matches being struck against a surface. Joan took a few more slow steps in the room, before turning to the right, where the sound appeared to be originating from. Her eyes widened and her heart stopped for a moment at the sight before her.

Leo was striking a match above a pile of bloodied clothes on the ground, which were soaked in alcohol and remnants of glass. As soon as she observed him, the match lit, and he dropped it onto the clothes, before gazing up and looking at her in surprise. His eyes widened and his features tensed, as walked past the pile of burning clothes and towards Joan Watson.

After reviewing the footage for almost ten minutes, Sherlock was becoming increasingly despondent, and convinced that Gregson's initial scepticism over the usefulness of this particular piece of video was not at all misplaced. But in the ninth minute, Sherlock saw something which he recognised, something which confused and terrified him in equal measure. Sherlock zoomed in on the individual's left hand, cleaning up the image with the software as best he could, before leaning back in horror. On the back of the man's left palm was a tattoo, one which he recognised instantly at having belonged to Leo, the waiter.

"Watson" Sherlock breathed, reaching for his phone and dialling the number he knew off by heart. A few moments later Sherlock heard the vibrating of her phone from the clutch bag she had left upon the couch, which toppled onto its side as the phone continued to buzz inside.


	13. To Cherish

A/N: Hey everyone, I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update this story. It hasn't been a great week. Anyways, I hope you enjoy the latest chapter. As always, any comments/criticism/advice is greatly appreciated, so thank you. And thanks for sticking with the story. I hope the wait was worthwhile.

All my love,

HQ21

The match fell quickly to the ground and ignited the alcohol-covered clothing, papers and wrappers on the ground, igniting them instantly and covering them in a bright and burning orange glow. As the clothes blackened and tore, the paper curled and became ash, falling helplessly onto the ground amongst the broken green glass from the shattered bottle of expensive vintage champagne. However, very little of this was noticed by Joan Watson, whose wary and confused gaze was fixed upon the figure of Leo, whose eyes reflected the fire as he approached her.

"Mrs Taylor" he began, smiling lightly as he stopped before her, his tall figure looming over her. "Or should I call you Miss Watson?"

Joan took a cautious step back, distancing herself slightly from the man before her and the flames of the fire which, although confined to the ground for the moment, would soon reach a nearby shelf of alcohol, and create a fire with the potential to destroy the building.

Joan did not respond to him immediately, she simply swallowed and met his eyes with a confident gaze, standing tall opposite him as he continued to walk towards her, pausing once he was so close that she could feel his breath on her face. Her heart stilled for a moment, as the sensation reminded her of Sherlock's breath on her cheek. She quickly blinked back the memory and looked up at him once more, finding him facing her with a curious a borderline manic gaze.

"Oh yes" he breathed, his eyes widening as a small smile played on his lips. "I've heard all about you. And, if you had the good sense to keep out of the way for a few more days, I would not have had to resort to these tactics" he stated, his eyes darkening slightly as the sound of the flames broke the terrifying silence.

Before Joan could react, Leo had taken a step closer to her and clamped his hand across her mouth, pushing her across the room and slamming her body into the wall opposite. She groaned in pain, tilting her head up as she attempted to breathe. Leo adjusted his hold on her, clamping his hand tighter across her mouth as he pushed himself against her, pinning her to the wall. Joan reacted immediately and instinctively. Struggling beneath him and trying to push him from her, pushing at him hard with her hands and attempting to kick at his legs. For a moment she thought she had been successful, as Leo removed his body from hers and stood back a pace. As she moved forwards to push him, she felt his hand upon her side, as he slammed her body against the wall, the back of her head colliding with the crumbling concrete, causing her to cry out in pain.

"Shh" Leo soothed, his head tilting to the side as he looked at her. "You're very attractive, you know that?" he whispered, his mouth against her ear. Joan felt her chest tighten and her whole body tense at the feeling of his body against hers. She blinked rapidly in an attempt to calm herself, as memories of her kidnap the year before came flooding back. After a few moments, she closed her eyes. "It's such a pity you had to come down here, you know" Leo continued, smiling as he sensed her discomfort. "It pains me to hurt such a pretty face" he hissed, laughing lightly against her ear. Joan opened her eyes, her heart stilling as she processed his words, and felt his body pinning her to the wall. At that moment, something inside her, something strength she had not realised that she possessed, overtook her.

Joan pushed against him with all her weight and strength, in a move so quick and unexpected that she was actually successful, and her attacker was thrown a couple of feet from her. Joan did not turn towards him or consider his current state, instead, she turned directly towards the steps and ran towards them. She ran up the first two steps without issue, but before she could reach the third she felt Leo's strong hands grab her waist, pulling her towards him and throwing her against the ground. Joan's forehead hit the hard ground, stunning her for a moment, as her aching body lay motionless upon the ground.

Joan kept her eyes closed and calmed herself, so her barely audible breathing gave the illusion that she was unconscious. She listened carefully in the darkness, the sound of Leo's shoes crunching against the small pieces of broken glass on the ground as he walked towards her. As she focused on his approaching footsteps, she also found herself drawn to the sound of the flames to her far right. The sounds were decreased, notably lower. And the heat that she had previously felt was much lower. Although it was a small mercy, she was grateful that the fire appeared to be extinguishing, happy that it would not cause a fire which could claim the lives of even more people. Joan felt her heart clench at this thought, as the footsteps stopped beside her body, and she considered the wording of her thoughts. Would she be the latest victim?

"Hey" Leo hissed, placing his hand on Joan's shoulder and shaking her. "Get up!" he hissed once more, pushing her over so she was lying on her back against the cold concrete floor. Joan's eyes were closed and her hands fell limply to her side. Leo looked over her body, his eyes frantic and wild. He moved a few strands of hair from her forehead and saw the deep gash to her head, which was causing blood to pour down the side of her forehead and cheek. Joan was aware of the sticky substance trickling down her face, from a wound on her head which was painful and causing her head to pound. She didn't know how deep the wound was, but the fact that she was still conscious and not feeling tired or nauseous was a good sign. But then again, that could just be because of adrenaline. However, the fact that she was able to think logically and rationally convinced her that she was not concussed, which was a small mercy. "Hey!" he hissed, his voice rising into a panic-like state, as he kicked her in her right side.

The contact was forceful and painful, and Joan was certain that it had broken one of her ribs. By some miracle she managed to avoid screaming out in pain which, again, she put down to adrenaline. As she dealt with the pain, she found herself wondering why he seemed so concerned that he may have fatally wounded her which, from his words and actions earlier, had clearly been his intention. Perhaps he needed something from her? Maybe he wanted to question her, find out what she and Sherlock knew? Joan felt certain this was the answer, but as she processed her thoughts, she was interrupted by the feeling of Leo's foot connecting sharply with her ribs on the left side of her body. The force he used was greater than before, causing her body to shudder and her left arm rose and fell against something which, after a few moments thought, Joan correctly recognised to be the bottom shelf of one of the wooden wine racks, her fingers having struck the smooth glass before her hand fell to the ground. As Joan processed this new piece of information, she sensed the agitation of Leo, who was pacing by her side. She heard him exhale in annoyance, his breath becoming sharp and ragged, before he bent down beside her. She could sense his body looming over her, the scent of his aftershave mixed with fire and wine lingering in the air, as she felt his fingers drift up hers and land on her wrist.

It took everything in her not to recoil in disgust at the contact, his fingers running up hers and travelling across her wrist. But a moment later Joan realised what he was doing, and she felt herself panic. He was checking for a pulse.

Leo pressed his fingers lightly to her wrist, searching across her wrist for a pulse, the discovery of which was inevitable. Joan's heart stilled for a moment, fear and panic gripping her with such intensity that for a moment she thought it would be entirely possible that his search for her pulse would be unsuccessful. But it was not. Leo's fingers drifted across her wrist and rested in the correct space, as the strong beating of her pulse beneath her skin was felt by his calloused hands. Leo's eyes widened slightly, his gaze travelling from Joan's wrist across her body and towards her face, resting on her eyes which, he was surprised to find, were now open too.

Before Leo had time to process the scene or to react, Joan reached for the bottle to her left, grabbing its neck and striking it hard across the side of his head. Leo screamed and recoiled in pain, his hands moving to his head, as the shards of glass fell to the ground as his body was covered in an expensive red wine. As he knelt beside her, his hands on his face and his head turned down as he attempted to cope with the pain, Joan pushed herself onto her side, gritting her teeth through the pain as she forced herself onto her feet.

Despite the adrenaline which was coursing through her veins, the dull aching of her head was incessant and strong, and almost overtook her. She staggered to her feet and moved once more towards the staircase, a view which was slightly obscured by the trickling blood which was running towards her eye. This time, Joan did not make it to the third step. She did not even make it to the first. By the time she reached the bottom of the staircase and poised herself to ascend, the enraged Leo wrapped his arms around her and threw her across the room, causing her to land beside the partially-extinguished fire. Joan landed on her left forearm, her right hand just an inch from the flames of the fire. But her body and her mind were so physically exhausted that she found it impossible to process her own thoughts that she found it impossible to think, let alone move. The only thing she was aware of was Leo hissing the word 'bitch', before the sound of hasty steps up the wooden staircase drowned out the sound of the flames by her side.

Joan's eyes were closed and her body still, but she was not unconscious. She was tired and in pain but she was vaguely aware of what was going around her. Although her body was tiredly protesting against movement and her mind was clinging desperately to a temporary reprieve, she found that her hearing appeared to be heightened. And so, a few minutes later, she found herself feeling terrified and weakened as the sound of hasty footsteps down the staircase broke the silence. Her heart clenched and she desperately tried to convince her weary and broken body to move, but to no avail. As she felt the warmth of the flames beside her, and the ashes of burned paper beneath her fingertips, she began to focus on those sensations in a desperate and final hope that they would help her to acquire the strength she needed to defend herself against Leo. But a moment later, she found herself relieved to find that such energy was not required. As the footsteps reached the third step, a familiar voice called into the room, which caused her to open her languid eyes instantly.

"Watson!" called Sherlock, spotting her fallen body from the top of the staircase. Panic rose in his body as she rushed down the steps and ran towards her, throwing himself onto his knees as he placed his hands hesitantly over her fallen body. Her clothes were torn and there was blood coming from a wound on the right of her forehead, which shone brightly against the uncommon paleness which defined her features. "Watson" he breathed, panic and uncertainty clear in his voice, as he leaned over her and drew her hair from her **face** with his left hand, as his right searched for a pulse. Joan exhaled a small breath and her eyes flickered, as she drew her hand from the flames, the suddenness of the movements surprising her partner, who staggered a breath and repeated her name as he leaned further over her. Sherlock moved his right hand from her wrist and to the left side of her face, which he carefully turned towards him, her dark silky hair entangling itself between his fingers. As he did so, Joan's eyes opened wider, and she stared up at him with an uncertain look, staring at him hard to make sure it was really him. As she did so, her eyes became fixed on his, and they shared a gaze which lingered for a moment. Through her semi-conscious and pained state, she was sure she saw something in his eyes that was both terrifying and unfamiliar, something she did not recognised. Terror.

"Sher… Shrl-" she muttered, her eyes drifting closed once more as her head fell back **tiredly** against his hand. She tried to fight the pain and her tiredness, but found herself completely unable to. Her head was pounding and she felt cold and weak, and yet, as she felt him draw her head up with his right hand and her body with his left, she felt indescribably protected, and impossibly strong.

"It's alright" Sherlock soothed, his voice a low whisper. There was fear and uncertainty in his tone, and she felt certain that she detected sadness there, too. And guilt. "It's alright" he repeated. She groaned lightly and released a small breath as she felt her forehead press lightly against his shoulder, as she supported the back of her head with his left hand and drew his right arm across her back, pulling her towards him. A few moments later Joan felt herself be lifted into the air, the left side of her body pressed to his chest, as his reassuringly scent caused her entire body to relax. She felt his arm beneath her thighs as he drew her close to him, her eyes opening and closing at irregular intervals as he carried her through the room and up the stairs. As they reached the top of the staircase and entered the dining room, the stifling heat from the wine cellar was replaced by a cool, refreshing breeze from the tall windows in the room. And for the first time since Sherlock found her, and carried her from the room she feared would be the last place she would ever see, Joan Watson opened her eyes.

"Sherlock" she whispered, her voice low and cracked but notably strong. He did not respond verbally, but she looked up at his wide blue eyes, which were staring at her with uncertainty and sadness, as he slowly knelt down and lay her body upon the ground.

"You're alright, Watson" he stated gently, brushing some bloodied hair from her face as he knelt beside her. "You are injured, remain still" he directed, reaching into his pocket for his **phone**. Joan inhaled deeply and glanced across the room. The crystal chandeliers hung proudly upon the ceiling, the light reflecting them being transformed into beautiful colour. As she focused on this, she recalled the look of the fire in Leo's eyes as he walked towards her, a terrifying and predatory look upon his face. She staggered a breath and pressed her lips together, turning her head from the ceiling and towards Sherlock, whose phone was pressed to his ear. "Ambulance please" he stated, his voice slightly shaky. Joan watched as he cleared his throat several times as he spoke to the person on the other end of the phone, describing her injuries and giving the address, before ordering them to come at once. Joan's right hand moved across the polished floor and to the fingers which Sherlock was drumming on his knee. He stopped speaking on the phone for a moment, his lips parted and his eyes glassy. He closed his mouth and swallowed, before lowering his glance to his hand, which was being squeezed reassuringly by Joan's, despite her confused and weakened state. His fingers stilled.

Sherlock placed the phone back in his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, which he placed gently upon Joan's forehead, applying pressure as he leant over her. The blood saturated the material quickly, as his eyes scanned her face and body frantically for signs of other injuries which may not be immediately apparent. From the way her body arched and she cried out slightly as he was lifting her, he suspected that she had sustained injuries to the ribs on the right side of her body. Her hair was matted with blood and glass, and her right index finger was slightly burned from her proximity to the fire. But his immediate concern was the deep laceration to her forehead, which had caused blood to stream down her face, covering her pale **skin** and saturating her white blouse, which now clung tightly against her skin. As he looked down at the handkerchief, he removed it from her head, and was relieved to find that the bleeding had almost completely stopped. Throughout these few moments Joan had been completely silent and still, resolving herself to allow him to analyse the nature of her injuries before telling him what they were herself. Despite how much he trusted her and believed in her, when it came to understanding her injuries, she knew that the best way to let him know that she would be okay was to allow him to discover it for himself. She knew that he would perhaps need this reassurance more than she would, as his mind and his body was practically resonating with fear and panic.

"It's okay" she stated, her voice still slightly shaky but sounding more confident that it had done. "Sherlock, I'm okay" she **continued**, squeezing his hand once more as she attempted to pull herself up from the ground.

"Watson, no, no, you-" Sherlock stated, apparently ignoring her assurances. But from how he had found her and the blood she had lost, she couldn't say that she blamed him. "Try to remain still, the paramedics will be here soon" he soothed. Joan could feel his hand trembling beneath her own.

"Okay" she breathed, conceding to his request, and hoping that it would calm him. She swallowed and turned from him, blinking a couple of times as she stared back up at the ceiling, and the unforgiving chandeliers. "I couldn't stop him" she mumbled guiltily, feeling her heart clench. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion as he looked at her closely, his left hand removing her **hair** from her **face**, which felt like a tender caress.

"What?" he asked gently, his voice so soft and kind that she had to look at him carefully to remind herself that he was really there.

"He ran" she stated, her breathing becoming deeper as she attempting to deal with the dull, pulsing pain which was coming from her head. "I couldn't stop him." Sherlock stared at her incredulously, parting his lips to speak, but finding that only a small breath escaped at first.

"You have nothing to apologise for, Watson" he breathed, stroking her hair with his left hand removing his right from beneath hers. Joan's hand felt cold without his, but the warmth was quickly replaced, as he put his hand over hers and held it tight. "Absolutely nothing" he repeated, his voice low and whispered. Joan turned towards him, allowing their eyes to meet once more, as hers filled with tears. Before either of them could speak, the sound of several sets of heavy footsteps from the front of the restaurant drew their attention away. Sherlock turned his head reluctantly from Joan and met the eyes of Gregson and Bell, who had just entered the room, and were heading quickly towards their fallen partner. Gregson barked a few orders at the three or four officers who followed him, directing them to the wine-cellar. They cast a cursory glance at the fallen figure of the woman they recognised, before heading directly towards the door behind the bar.

"Joan" Gregson breathed, running towards her and kneeling by her left side, looking over her injuries. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Yeah" she mumbled, pressing her lips into a small smile as she turned towards him. "Yeah, I'm okay" she repeated, as Detective Bell walked slowly towards her, standing by her feet. Sherlock's hand remained firmly clasping her own. "You, uh…" Joan mumbled, clearing her throat slightly as she looked up at Bell. "You need to find him, you… you need-" Joan broke off as the pain from her ribs prevented further speech, the sharp piercing pain causing her stagger a breath and whimper slightly. Sherlock removed his hands from her and leaned over her, placing his right hand on her cheek and gently encouraging her to turn slowly towards him.

"Watson" he stated, his voice slightly lower than usual. "Watson" he repeated, causing her eyes to open as she looked towards him, gritting her teeth to forget about the pain. She stared at him, blinking several times as she attempted to hold his gaze and assure him she was fine. Sherlock looked from her face to her body, observing how her right hand was hovering hesitantly above her side, where he suspected she had broken several ribs. Sherlock gripped her trembling right hand with his left, squeezing it tightly as she inhaled and exhaled sharply in a desperate attempt to control the pain. "The medics will be here shortly, hold on, alright? It's okay, it's okay" he soothed, watching her bloodied chest rise and fall as she attempted to calm herself. Joan closed her eyes and tilted her head back slightly, breathing in and out as she squeezed his hand. Gregson and Bell's attention was focused on the pain of their colleague, but they did not miss the look in Sherlock's eyes, his delicate ministrations to her, the look of fear and abject terror which defined his features.

Joan opened her eyes slowly and turned towards Sherlock, whose eyes were wide and glassy, and fixed completely upon her. As she stared at him she found her body relaxing slightly, her breathing becoming less laboured and falling into a calmed and more regular pattern, as she reduced the pressure she was applying to his hand. Her audible and still evidently pained breathing filled the silence, which Gregson and Bell allowed to remain as it seemed to be helping Joan. Gregson could not see Joan's eyes, but he could see Sherlock's, and watched carefully as the consultant stared down at his partner with a look he'd never seen before. If he didn't know better, he'd say he was hypnotising her or something. And considering how much pain she must be in, he wasn't sure that he'd condemn him if he was. Something was definitely passing between them, something that was clearly calming and comforting Joan Watson, but he'd be damned if he knew what it was. After a few more minutes, the sound of loud sirens and bright lights flashing through the windows broke the silence. A few moments later, a male and a female paramedic rushed into the room, heading directly towards Joan and kneeling beside her. It was only then that she and Sherlock reluctantly broke their gaze, and their hands finally parted.

The paramedics introduced themselves to Joan, briefly **surveyed** her injuries and asked her questions about how she sustained them. As she described the events which had led to her current state, she saw Sherlock's hand curl into a fist, and his eyes blaze with anger. As soon as he noticed that she was watching him he relaxed slightly, his fingers uncurling themselves from his fist, and drumming quickly against his thigh.

"Alright, we need to get you to hospital" the female medic said, turning to her colleague and indicating towards the spinal board which he brought with him.

"No" Joan returned, pressing her hands to the ground and pushing herself up. "Thanks, but I-" her words were cut off by the pain in her side which caused her to whimper slightly, as Sherlock moved instantly towards her and supported her with his hands, attempting to encourage her to lie back down. His right hand was by her shoulder and his left was in the centre of her back, holding her gently to his chest.

"Watson" he began, his voice gentle but firm. "You require medical attention, your injuries need to be treated-"

"I'm not refusing treatment I'm refusing hospitalisation" Joan returned, her head bowed slightly as she attempted to push herself up once more.

"Watson, lie down" Sherlock stated more firmly. "Watson-"

"No" she returned, looking up at him with a look of conviction. His eyes were wide and confused, and scanning her quickly for signs of further injury, or for the source of her current refusal. "It's okay" she soothed. "I don't have a concussion, and there is not much that can be done for fractured or broken ribs" she stated, feeling the pain in her side. "To be honest I'm not sure that they're broken, I think I'm just bruised" she stated, her shoulder grazing his chest as she looked down at herself, and became aware of the closeness of their bodies. She looked up towards him and met his gaze, which conveyed his confusion and his worry. "Sherlock, I'll be fine." Sherlock watched her silently for several moments, before lowering his gaze slightly and focusing attention on her bloodied blouse, before lifting his head to meet hers.

"Then you can be fine in the hospital" he stated, his voice slightly higher.

"No, Sherlock-"

"Watson you have sustained a head injury" Sherlock stated incredulously. "You were semi-conscious when I found you, and you must be monitored for twenty four hours. So, please-" he continued, gesturing towards the paramedics.

"I never lost consciousness" she returned gently, causing him to turn back towards her. "I don't feel sick or tired or confused. The pain in my head is lessening, and I think I'm just bruised" she continued, watching as Sherlock's eyes became fixed on her own. "And since when did you become an advocate of official medical procedure?" she asked lightly, attempting to smile slightly as she pressed her right hand to her side, running her fingers lightly up her ribs. Nothing was broken.

"Since my partner was assaulted and very nearly killed in a wine cellar" Sherlock returned, his voice adopting the fast-paced and slightly manic tone it often did when he was either deeply concerned or consumed by a sense of guilt. As Joan looked up at him through her tired and pained haze, she found herself convinced that it was both.

"I was a doctor, Sherlock, remember?" she soothed, causing his eyes to drift back to hers. "And I'm telling you that I'm alright. I can rest and recover here-"

"Miss Watson" interrupted the female medic, whose silence so far had slightly irked Captain Gregson. "I must agree with your… with your friend. The best place for you to be right now is in the hospital."

"Thank you, but I can't" she replied softly, watching as the concerned expression on the medic's face deepened, and she turned helplessly towards Sherlock. "Look, I…" Joan began, causing the medic to turn back towards her. "Can't you just check me over here? I'm sure my injuries are fairly superficial, and-"

"What, exactly, is your definition of superficial, Watson?" Sherlock asked incredulously, his voice rising slightly. Joan turned her attention towards him as she adjusted herself in her sitting position.

"Let's just let them examine me, and we'll go from there" Joan replied gently. "Okay?"

It was not okay. Sherlock wanted Joan to go to the hospital, undergo the battery of tests they often ran for head injuries and remain there, safely and under police protection, until he found Leo and ensured his incarceration. But as she looked at him now, it became quite clear that Joan Watson would not go to hospital, but wished to remain in the hotel. He suspected (correctly) that she wished to remain on the case, and felt that after a brief period of rest they would be able to continue their work and delve deeper into the ever-confusing web of depravity that this case was turning into. They would discuss that accordingly. But for the moment, he was grateful that his headstrong albeit terrifyingly defiant partner was accepting medical attention. And whilst she was doing so, Sherlock wished to use the opportunity to have a discussion with Gregson and Bell.

"Very well" Sherlock stated simply, causing Joan to give him a slightly sceptical look. "Will you allow me to assist you to stand?" he asked, his voice becoming gentle and kind, as genuine concern washed over his features. Joan nodded, clasping her hand tightly in his, as he wrapped his left arm across her back, and assisted the female medic in getting her to her feat. The task was not as challenging as he expected it to be, and Watson was either a terrific actress or in less pain than he had anticipated. She seemed slightly unsteady on her feet at first, but with the assistance of himself and the medics, she was guided to the kitchen door at the back of the room, gaining confidence with each step she took as she was led to the makeshift examination room. As soon as they reached the doors, Sherlock pushed it open with his right hand, holding it for Joan to pass through. She turned her head back as the medics walked behind her and led her inside. She gave a final comforting look to Sherlock, who took a step back from her as the doors closed behind them. He stood motionless for a moment, before turning on the spot and heading back to Gregson and Bell.

"Holmes" Gregson began, his voice gentle and paternal, as Sherlock walked towards him. "Holmes it's gonna be-"

"Where were they?" Sherlock asked, his voice the same quick and frustrated tone it often was when he was in an emotional state. Gregson recognised this immediately and resolved to keep his calm. His partner had just been hurt and he was upset, it was understandable. But he wasn't gonna let him go too far.

"Who" Gregson returned, genuinely confused.

"The clearly under-trained, ill-informed buffoons you laughingly call police officers" Sherlock continued, walking towards Gregson and pausing as they were just a couple of inches apart. Gregson could hear Bell walking up behind him, and lifted a hand to still the detective, as Sherlock continued to speak. "There should have been more of a police presence here after what happened to Thomas" Sherlock stated, his voice low. "Where were they?" Gregson waited for a few moments for Sherlock to calm himself before addressing his query.

"The police are guarding the staircase and keeping eyes on the front and back of the building, monitoring who comes and who goes" Gregson replied calmly. "We had no reason to put them in the restaurant, certainly not in the wine cellar" he returned, regret clear in his tone. Before he could continue, one of the officers he had sent into the cellar approached him with an evidence bag, which appeared to contain a sizeable chunk of a slightly-charred bottle label. "What happened was unforeseeable, Holmes. We had no way of knowing that this was gonna go down-"

"We should have" Sherlock returned, his fingers forming fists which hung resolutely by his side. Gregson watched Sherlock for a few moments, surprising that he had used the term 'we' instead of 'you', thus including himself in the individuals he held responsible for Joan's injuries.

"This is not your fault, Holmes" Gregson stated, speaking slowly and confidently. Sherlock exhaled deeply and looked up towards him. "You gotta believe that" he added, as the officer reached his side and handed him the paper. Sherlock's anger and guilt were temporarily abated by the distraction that this new piece of evidence provided. He watched as Gregson's eyes widened and his lips parted slightly, as a small and frustrated exhaled breath escaped his lips.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his voice lower and calm, as Gregson handed him the evidence bag.

Joan re-did the buttons on the bloodied and torn blouse which was clinging to her chest, before tugging on her blazer with some assistance from the female medic. She thanked her as the male medic continued to apply steri-strips to her forehead, an injury which she was relieved to find was less serious than she had initially feared, and did not require stitches.

"You don't appear to have a concussion" the male medic stated, having performed various tests on Joan before tending to her injuries. "And from an initial examination of you it appears that your ribs are not broken, but you have some significant bruising to your sides, and without hospitalisation I cannot rule out internal bleeding." Joan nodded in understanding as she did up the buttons on her blazer, attempting to cover the blood, and appear almost normal and unscathed. She almost laughed at that thought.

"I'm a former doctor, I know the symptoms" she replied gently. "If I start showing any signs of internal bleeding I'll head straight to the hospital, I promise" she added, watching as the medics stood before her and considered her for a moment, as though she were an alien species. "But I'm sure it's just bruising."

"Your head must be pounding" the female medic stated, causing Joan to turn towards her. "The painkillers we gave you will wear off in a couple hours. If you make a doctor's appointment or head to a hospital, they can prescribe you with more." _Pharmaceutical bribery _Joan thought, as she secured the final button and straightened her jacket.

"I know" she returned gently. "Thank you." The medics were forced to concede defeat, handing Joan some paperwork which she signed quickly with slightly shaking hands, giving it back to them before walking slowly from the room, and towards the figures of Sherlock, Gregson and Bell, who were clearly deep in conversation.

"What is it?" Joan asked, her voice announcing her arrival sooner than her footsteps, causing Sherlock to turn around instantly. He stared at her for a few moments, his eyes travelling across her body in a search for any signs of pain or discomfort, which she was clearly attempting to conceal. Her eyes drifted from his face to the evidence bag he was holding, which she indicated towards as she walked closer to him. "What's that?" she asked curiously, her eyes not breaking their gaze.

"The method used by Leo to communicate the details of the fourteen girls he has kidnapped to potential buyers" Sherlock replied, unable to conceal his disdain as he spoke the final couple of words, before handing Joan the evidence bag. Joan's eyes fell from Sherlock's as she studied the item in her hands, which explained how Leo was able to communicate with Dalton and his associates the night before. In the evidence bag was a piece of a slightly-singed label for a champagne bottle. It appeared completely normal and inconspicuous on the front, but on the back were pictures of girls who Joan recognised to be recent kidnapping victims, with double-digits beneath their headshots. There were only six girls on this piece, which was about half the size of the label. But she imagined that the full-sized label contained images and prices of all the girls.

"Leo adhered these to champagne bottles, which he gave to Dalton and his associates last night" began Sherlock. "They took the bottles to their rooms, if you recall, where they undoubtedly peeled off the labels and discussed their… intentions" he added, as Joan nodded in agreement. "They contacted Leo with the details of the girls they wished to purchase and, I suspect, promptly destroyed the labels."

"Thomas was looking for bottles of alcohol for tonight, arranging it all" Joan stated. "He found a bottle that Leo had somehow mistakenly stored with the rest. He made the connection" she continued, looking up towards Sherlock. "He was probably heading upstairs with one of the labels, with the intention of putting it under our door or searching through Dalton's room or…"

"We won't know what he was about to do, Watson" Sherlock added gently. "But I feel quite certain that he discovered the identity of the American we had been searching for, and before he could convey the information to us in a way which would maintain the safety of us all, he was killed. Leo then attempted to destroy the labels and evidence linking him to that particular crime." Joan nodded.

"Which I interrupted" she breathed, handing the evidence bag back to Gregson.

"Yes" Sherlock returned. "And I have little doubt that you almost suffered the same fate." Joan looked up towards Sherlock, whose eyes were wide and glassy, and staring at her with a melancholy expression. She offered him a kind look, but before she could speak he removed his eyes from hers and turned to Gregson. "I would like to take Miss Watson to our room to recuperate, Captain. I'll remain with her and ensure she has everything she needs. Including a ride to hospital, if she requires it."

"You know I'm standing right here" Joan stated lightly. Sherlock turned towards her with a calm expression, watching her closely for a moment, as if afraid she were about to break.

"Of course" Gregson added. "We'll look at the scene and send officers after Leo."

"Good luck, Captain" Sherlock stated, taking a step towards Joan and placing his left hand on her lower back and clasping her right hand with his own, as he slowly led her through the restaurant. "I believe you will need it." As they reached the doorway and walked through the foyer Joan turned towards Sherlock, whose gentleness and consideration for her current discomfort provided her with infinite gratitude.

"I thought you didn't believe in luck" she stated as they reached the elevator. Sherlock removed his right hand from hers and pressed the button, before turning back towards her and clasping it once more.

"I don't" he stated simply, turning towards the elevator doors as they opened, and leading her inside. The elevator journey passed in a comfortable silence which was tinged with uncertainty. Sherlock's hands remained on Joan, applying gentle and tentative pressure, and considerate of her injuries. She was standing close to him, their hands joined and their breathing in sync, as they were taken to their floor. Despite the fact that they were shut in an airless steel box, she had never felt so safe. She looked up towards him, staring at the side of his face, as the doors opened before them, and he led her down the corridor and towards their room. He removed his key card from his pocket, opening their door and allowing her to pass through first. His eyes lingered on his key card for a few moments, as his mind flashed back to the memory of Joan rifling through her bag and searching for her key card, before leaving the room and heading downstairs to a vicious attack, as he sat comfortably on the couch with his laptop, watching as Clyde attempted to navigate his way across the files, stationery and make-up that were strewn upon the glass table. Sherlock closed the door firmly and walked into the room.

Joan walked straight across the room and towards the mini fridge, removing a bottle of water and taking a sip. Sherlock remained by the door, watching her as she moved, surveying her body for any sign of injury or discomfort. Her clothes were torn and bloodied, but her head injury had been dressed and she had lost the deathly paleness that she bore in the wine cellar. Her words were spoken with greater clarity and confidence than they had been, and her walking and other movements had improved markedly. And she was no longer trembling.

Joan noticed Sherlock's silence, and found that it concerned her more than his shouting or anger, that she had heard from the kitchen as she was being treated. She took a final sip of her water, placed it back in the fridge and then turned to face him, mentally preparing herself for their imminent conversation. After a few moments of silence, she spoke.

"Are you okay?" she asked, genuine concern entering her voice. Sherlock did not respond immediately, but watched her silently for several moments. His breathing rate was fast, his fingers were drumming against his thigh, and his eyes were bright and fearful. He was clearly agitated, and Joan wanted to placate him, to reassure him. "Sherlock" she said gently after a few moments of silence, as she began to slowly walk towards him. "Sherlock-"

"Why did you go down there?" he asked, his voice low and gentle, heavy with confusion and sadness. "Watson, what would possess you to-"

"I heard glass breaking and I thought Leo was down there, I wanted to talk to him, I-" she began gently, taking another step closer to her partner, who was watching her with an expression bordering between agitation and concern. "We had no way of knowing that-"

"We should have" Sherlock stated simply, his eyes not meeting hers. "I should have" he continued, as Joan watched him with a confused expression.

"What?" she asked gently, taking another step towards him. "Sherlock, how could we have known?"

"I should have looked into the employee records" he stated, his fingers drumming rapidly against his thigh as he spoke, his eyes averting her gaze completely. "I didn't. I did not consider that it could have been an employee we were searching for. I should have-"

"I looked into the employee files" Joan stated calmly, causing Sherlock to look towards her with a confused expression. "I looked into them all, and I remember reading Leo's. He started about two months ago, which was shortly after the disappearance of the fourteenth girl. He clearly wanted to establish his cover immediately. The thought didn't occur to me until just now" she stated, exhaling deeply. "This was not your fault" she stated, taking another step towards him as she observed the fearful and guilt-ridden expression in his eyes. His eyes and his countenance reminded her of how he had appeared when she first saw him after being kidnapped by Le Milieu. He wore the same look of uncertainty, doubt, guilt, pain, anguish and turmoil, which caused her infinitely more pain than the injuries she had just so recently sustained. "We couldn't have foreseen this, we couldn't have prevented-" Sherlock turned from Joan and walked past her, exhaling deeply as he stared blankly at the window before him, before turning back towards Joan, who was standing just a few paces away. "Sherlock-"

"I invited you into this world, Watson" he began, his eyes ablaze as he gestured with his hand. He was agitated and upset, but with himself, not her. And for some reason, she found this to be even more unbearable than the alternative. "I elicited your help, I trained you and I worked with you, and now, again, you have been-"

"Stop" Joan breathed gently, walking towards him so they were just inches apart, and looking up at him as she spoke. "This is not your fault, Sherlock, it's okay-"

"It is not okay, Watson" he returned, his eyes wide and his expression solemn. "I am, as always, placing you in danger which I have failed foresee, and which I was unable to protect you from."

"Sherlock" she soothed, surprised at his level of agitation. She wondered whether he had been like this when she had been kidnapped, and what had run through his mind when he first heard the news. The broken whiteboard and chipped furniture was a testament to his anguish that day, but she had not pictured it herself, and she could not bear to. "We can't see everything. You can't see everything" she began, watching as his blazing eyes held her gaze for a few moments. She placed her hand comfortingly but hesitantly upon his shoulder, as if afraid he would reject the contact and push her away. But he did not. "It's like we've discussed before. We are both aware of the danger and we both accept it. We-"

"And yet" he interrupted, his voice eerily calm as he stared at the ground, before looking up towards her eyes. "You are always the one who seems to suffer the greatest. You pay the highest price for the work we undertake, and it is a price I am never able to pay for you." Joan's expression softened, and she lowered her gaze for a moment before meeting his with conviction.

"That's not true" she replied, her voice lower and more gentle than she had intended. She wanted to sound certain, to be convincing. But she did not. "Sherlock it is not that simply. Not everything is so black and white. We are both in danger every day, you know that, we've talked about that. You're the one who warned me about the dangers we're in, who taught me to protect myself, and who has enabled me to come back from everything that we have been through. You do protect me, Sherlock. By being here, by having met me and taught me and had faith in me, you have protected me." Whilst she had been talking she had moved closer to him, and the hand that had rested on his shoulder was now half-way down his arm, remaining their motionless, as if afraid to move. They were standing so close that she could hear his breathing, his exhalations, and even his heartbeat. As she looked up towards him, she found his wide eyes meeting hers, and forming a greater connection than she ever felt it possible for them to achieve. Joan moved her fingers lightly upon his arm, allowing them to drift down him and towards his hand, which she clasped tightly with her own, stilling his tapping once more. Despite her pain, her soreness and the aching of her limbs, her medical status was not her primary concern. It never had been. Not really.

"There is only so much any one of us is able to bear" Sherlock stated in a low, gentle voice, as he squeezed her hand in return. Joan felt his fingers dance lightly upon her palm, as he rose his free hand to her face, brushing her hair from her eyes and placing it behind her ear, revealing her steri-stripped and dressed forehead. "Forgive me, Watson" he breathed, as Joan moved closer to him, her chest brushing against his slightly, as he ran his finger across the top of the dressing, before tilting his head forwards, and placing a gentle kiss upon it. Joan closed her eyes instantly, surprised at the contact, which she found paralysed her. She released a staggered breath as the kiss that his warm lips planted on her head lingered for a moment, before he removed his lips from her and pressed his forehead slightly to hers. They stood for a moment, calmly and without concern, in perfect silence.

"What is it" Joan began, moving her head so that their foreheads and noses grazed, as she looked up into his bright and alert eyes. "What it is that you want forgiveness for?" she asked, her voice low and breathless. Sherlock's unwavering stare held hers for a moment, their foreheads and noses aligned as they stared into the depths of each other's eyes. After a moment or so, Joan felt Sherlock's free hand move sensually down her back, mindful of her injuries, until it rested in its now familiar position in her lower back. She breathed in slightly, arching her body ever so slightly, as he applied gentle pressure to the place his hand had claimed upon her, watching as her eyes flickered and her breathing increased, her heart beat rapidly against his chest.

"This" he breathed lightly, using his hand to draw her closer to him, as he titled his head to the side. Their eyes closed simultaneously as their lips met for the first time. The kiss began tentatively at first, slow, delicate and incredibly gentle. After a few moments of gentle and exploratory kisses, Sherlock and Joan opened their eyes, staring at each other as if waiting for the other to break the kiss, but each willing them not to. As if communicating through their breathing or through their expressions, Sherlock and Joan closed their eyes once more and continued to kiss. Joan removed her hand from her and Sherlock's clasped ones, and allowed it to run up his arm and become fixed on the back of his shoulder, as the kiss deepened and became more passionate. Sherlock responded instantly, pulling Joan towards him so that their bodies were closer than they had been before, their hips pressed together with such tightness and strength that Joan moaned into Sherlock, who deepened the kiss in response. Sherlock's hand moved up Joan's back, exploring her curiously and tentatively. It was though each were testing how far the other would permit the contact, how far they were able to go before it had to stop.

But as they continued to kiss, Joan's hand moving up the nape of his neck and pulling him deeper into the kiss, neither of them wanted it to stop. Sherlock responded immediately, moving his hand back down her back until it rested in its usual place, before pulling her back towards him so that their hips slammed together with more force than he had intended. Joan pressed her hips against his as they continued to kiss passionately, moans escaping her lips as she struggled to recapture her breath. She felt the previous tingling sensations they experienced through physical contact being multiplied infinitely, causing electricity to course through her veins, and her hips to feel as though they were on fire. Sherlock's hand found the back of her neck, and he pulled her further into the kiss, before using his other hand to pull her tighter against his hips, an action she appeared to be attempting to encourage. Joan moaned in response, pushing herself against his hips as hard as she could, causing a gruff moan to escape his lips. Their lips parted for a moment, as they both struggled to recapture their breathing. Their eyes opened and Sherlock looked down upon Joan, whose previous paleness was replaced by a warm glow and pink flush to her cheeks. He exhaled heavily, staring into her eyes for a few moments, before removing his hands from her face and body, causing her to look up with confusion.

"Forgive me, Watson" he mumbled breathlessly, taking an unsteady step back. His eyes were wild and brimming with confusion, and before she could react Sherlock had turned on the spot, walked quickly across the room, and headed out of the front door. Joan stood motionless and silent, trying to piece together what had just happened, as she felt a single drop of blood begin to trail down her cheek.


	14. To Honour

A/N: Hey everyone, thank you for reading the last chapter, and thank you to everyone who reviewed. As always, they have been very helpful and reassuring J I was slightly concerned that Sherlock in particular seems quite OOC at the moment, if you think he or any of the characters are please let me know and I will try to rectify it. I always find the writing so much more difficult at this stage! Also, if the plot (either the relationship or the progression of the case) seems convoluted or unrealistic, please let me know.

Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy the latest instalment.

- HQ21

Joan remained frozen on the spot for a short while, her heart and mind racing with a mixture of confusion and arousal, as she tried to compose herself and recover her thoughts. After an unknown period of time which felt like mere seconds, Joan felt her heart beat return to normal and her breathing recover, as the tingling sensation upon her lips remained the last physical remnant of the deep, passionate encounter that she had just shared with Sherlock Holmes. Joan exhaled a shaky breath, placing her fingertips upon her lips, before slowly retracting them.

The kiss had been unexpected, and its evolution from gentle and chaste to passionate and semi-sexual surprised her. As she remembered the speed at which the kiss had progressed and turned into something much more, she found herself questioning how it had happened, her mind going over each piece of conversation and each physical interaction in the minutes leading up to the kiss they shared. Although it was unquestionable that the levels of their physical contact had been increasing during the week, and the barriers which had been thrown up at the beginning of their relationship had been breaking down, the kiss was seemed so soon and unpredicted. _Not that it was inevitable_ Joan corrected herself, inhaling deeply, before wincing at the pain it caused her. Joan broke from her thoughts and glanced down at her side, placing a hand tentatively over her side as she ran her fingers lightly up her ribs, narrowing her eyes at the dull pain it caused her.

Joan lowered her hand and sighed lightly, closing her eyes for a moment before raising her head and staring back up. As she did so, she found herself facing the door, and the memories of Sherlock's hurried departure returned to her with full force, causing her body to ache with more intensity than her bruises could ever cause. She remembered his words, his hurried words of apology, and the genuine look of guilt and confusion which was etched onto his features, as looked deep into her eyes for a moment, before turning on the spot and leaving the suite. Whether it was because he regretted what had happened or because he did not, Joan did not know. And part of her questioned whether she wanted to.

Joan placed her head in her hands, exhaling deeply as she attempted to regain the control that she was losing. The day had been more physically and emotionally exhausting than she could bear. Her mind was racing and her body was tired and sore, and she experienced the odd sensation that most people face in times of overwhelming turmoil, when your whole body feels as though it is on fire. Her skin burned, as if it were alight, and she felt herself trembling. With anger, fear or as a result of a delayed reaction to the trauma she had experienced in the wine cellar, she did not know. All she knew was that she would be unable to think clearly whilst covered in blood, alcohol and broken glass, and wearing clothing that was torn, dirty and barbecued. Without another thought Joan walked confidently across the room and into her bedroom, closing the doors firmly behind her.

As soon as she entered the room Joan began shedding the damaged clothing she was wearing. Her black blazer fell to the ground first, along with several shards of broken glass and remnants of paper. She inhaled sharply as she bent down to push her skirt down her thighs, the bruising at her side aching and burning in equal measure until she stood upright once more and remained perfectly still for several moments. Joan then undid the three undamaged buttons of her blouse which seemed to have held the garment together, by some miracle. As she shrugged the blouse from her shoulders and onto the ground, she turned her head to the side slightly, and found herself remembering the feeling of Sherlock's hands upon her. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply as she remembered his strong hands on her back, her neck, her cheek. His hands had travelled up and down her back, exploring her curiously yet in a manner which she could best describe as 'gentlemanly', before he pulled her body onto his.

Joan exhaled shakily and opened her eyes, her body trembling once more with both coldness and arousal, as she turned towards the bathroom and walked inside. She locked the door behind her before turning on the shower, closing the curtain and then standing tall before the mirror. Her eyes widened slightly at her reflection, which she had not seen since her attack. Her hair was dishevelled and smelled slightly of smoke. Her skin was pale, save for the blood which was dripping slowly down her cheek, which she brushed away. The dressing that had been professionally applied to her head wound was partially saturated with blood and was becoming loose, which Joan correctly believed was due to the passionate nature of her encounter with Sherlock. She swallowed, slowly removing the dressing from her forehead and tossing it into the bin beside the sink, before using some damp tissue to clean up the rest of the blood from around the steri-strips. Despite her careful ministrations, and the bloodied and pale person she saw staring back at her from the mirror, Joan found that it was not the blood or the bruising to her side or the unkemptness of her hair that her attention was drawn to. It was her eyes. She had expected them to look hollow or tear-stained or red, but instead, she found herself looking at the broken body of a woman she recognised, whose shining eyes and dilated pupils seemed to outshine the injuries she bore. Although her breathing had recovered and her heart rate was normal, the remnants of her passionate encounter with Sherlock were represented strongly by the brightness of her eyes, which were alight.

After staring at her reflection for several moments, Joan found it to be a relief when the condensation from the hot shower caused the glass to steam and her reflection to be hidden. She sighed, removing the rest of her clothing before heading straight into the shower, and allowing the hot water to sooth her aching body. As Joan was washing her hair she found herself wondering about the encounter with Sherlock, and focusing specifically on his departure immediately afterwards, as she attempted to understand its significance. After several minutes of thought, she found herself wondering whether it was because he wanted to pretend it had not happened. Perhaps he would return later in the day, feed Clyde some lettuce and continue reviewing the CCTV footage, and pretend that the encounter itself had never happened at all. Maybe it would be an unspoken act, something never acknowledged or alluded to, the ultimate taboo subject. Maybe they would continue with their lives as they had been before they entered the hotel, and act as though the kiss and everything that had led to it had never happened. And perhaps after a year, or two, or ten, of ignoring it, of never addressing it or admitting that it had happened, they would begin to believe it. Joan turned off the shower and stood still for a few moments as the water fell from her hair and body, before drawing the curtain aside and stepping into the cold bathroom, wrapping her aching body in a towel, refusing to check her reflection as she walked into the bedroom.

Fifteen minutes later Joan had dried her hair and applied some light make-up, which she found made her feel slightly more normal. She selected a long-sleeved white cotton shirt and fitted grey three-quarter length leggings to wear, which she found easier to put on than she had anticipated. _I guess the painkillers are finally kicking in_ she thought as she pulled her hair from the back of her shirt. _At least that's something_. She picked up some files from her bedside table, all based on the most recent victims who were kidnapped from New York and adjacent states, and carried them through the room. She pushed the door open and took a few steps into the suite, before looking up and stopping instantly, as she saw the familiar figure of Sherlock Holmes standing in front of the mantelpiece less than fifteen feet away from her.

As soon as she had entered the room Sherlock took a small step forward, his eyes not leaving her body as he did so. He ran his eyes over her quickly, assuring himself that her injuries were not causing her too much discomfort, before resting his gaze upon her face. She wore her usual calm and pensive expression, her eyes were wide and glistening and her lips slightly parted, as she titled her head to the side slightly and returned his gaze. Joan's eyes remained with his for several moments, holding his gaze with a mixture of mutual far and expectancy, as they each waited for the other to speak. After a few moments Joan broke from the gaze, lowering her eyes to the new objects on the table which she had only just noticed. On the table was a white paper bag from a pharmacy, and a grocery bag containing a medium-sized bag of ice. Joan felt herself relax and her features softened slightly. Although his departure was rude and inconsiderate, especially given the circumstances, the fact that he had returned so quickly and with items that he clearly hoped would alleviate her physical pain was slightly reassuring, and even comforting. But at that particular moment, Joan's physical pain and discomfort was the least of her concerns. Before she could utter a word, Sherlock began to speak.

"You were bleeding" Sherlock said simply, the sound of his voice in the otherwise silent room causing Joan to look up from the table and focus her attention on him. He seemed slightly nervous, and was speaking in a manner which seemed to suggest that he feared each word he spoke increased the chances of her throwing a heavy object directly at his head. But by the time he spoke next, he sounded calmer, his voice adopting its usual tone. "Your head, I mean. Your dressing was coming loose and I felt certain that the appalling excuses for medical kits which most hotels provide would not include the items you needed so" he continued, before putting out his arm theatrically and indicating towards the pharmacy bag on the table, "I bought you some dressings, bandaging, steri-strips and anti-septic items" he stated, nodding as he looked towards her. Joan swallowed, nodding lightly in return, which seemed to calm him further. "I also bought you some more painkillers, for when the ones you are currently using cease to be effective." Joan nodded once more as Sherlock retracted his arm, holding his arms to his sides and watching her from across the room.

"Thank you" Joan returned in a low but sincere voice, walking across the room and towards the table. She placed the files upon the table and sat herself in the armchair she favoured, before leaning forward and pulling the pharmacy bag towards her, pouring out its contents and sifting through them. Sherlock watched her for a few moments as she selected the items she needed, placing them on her lap and leaning back in the chair. As she leaned back her left side brushed against the armrest, and she inhaled sharply.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked instantly, taking a tentative step towards her.

"Fine" she returned in a low tone as she unwrapped a sanitising wipe. She sighed, realising that her tone may have seemed blunt. She looked up at Sherlock and met his gaze. "Thanks" she added kindly, earning a small nod from Sherlock in return. Joan placed the sanitising wipe upon its packet and balanced it on her knee, before picking up the packets containing the dressings and steri-strips. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, noticing how her hands appeared to tremble slightly as she opened the packaging. Whether it was due to pain or anger he could not tell, but whatever it was he felt responsible, and he wished to alleviate any distress she was experiencing instantly.

"May I assist you?" Sherlock asked gently, drumming his fingers lightly on the side of his leg as he spoke. Joan considered his request for a moment, debating whether to reject his offer and take the items to the bathroom, or attempt to dress her wound there on without a mirror, and show him that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself. But his nervousness and concern for her was practically palpable, and despite the fact that he had walked out on her after their kiss less than half an hour before, she knew that he was probably battling the same confusion and internal conflict that she had been. At that moment, they were much more alike than they were different.

"Sure, thank you" she replied, her voice low and gentle as she looked up at him. Sherlock tugged on the tops of his trousers before crouching down before her, his chest less than an inch from her thighs, their lips less than six inches apart. Joan swallowed, handing him the sanitizer wipe, which he accepted immediately. Sherlock slowly leaned forward, using his left hand to brush some hair from her face and place his hand tentatively on the side of her face, which caused her to remember him doing so less than thirty minutes earlier, before placing a chaste kiss upon her forehead. But this time his soft lips did not grace her skin. Instead, she was struck by the familiar stinging sensation of the sanitizer wipe upon her forehead, which caused her a small frown to appear as she inhaled sharply. Sherlock's eyes darted from her head to her eyes, before back to her forehead, where he focused on sterilising the wound. When he was done with the wipe he placed it on the torn pharmacy bag, before turning back towards her and locating the steri-strips. His hand was still upon her face, and she felt familiar feelings of warmth and comfort flood her body, as the electrical impulses which had surged through her shortly before returned in small bursts. Sherlock seemed to sense a change in her demeanour, and as he picked the steri-strips up from her thigh, his fingers brushing across her, he felt her muscles tense then relax beneath him. But it was through pleasure, not discomfort.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, looking into her eyes as he spoke. Joan nodded immediately in response, offering him a small and reassuring smile. He paused for a moment, watching her as if uncertain of the legitimacy of her reassurance, before he undid the packaging containing the steri-strips, and applied a few more to the wound on her forehead, which had opened slightly. "The cut appears to be deeper than I realised" Sherlock stated, his warmth breath drifting across her cheek as he dressed her wound. "Fortunately, I do not think you require stitches" he added, putting the final steri-strip in place, before placing a clean dressing over her forehead and continuing to speak as he secured it. "There may be a small scar, though" he stated, as she continued to focus on his face as he worked, her mind racing and her heart rate increasing as she considered posing several questions in rapid succession. But after a few moments, she only asked one.

"Are we going to talk about this?" she asked gently, her voice low but confident. Sherlock secured the final piece of tape and removed his hand from her forehead, and then from her cheek. She felt instantly cooler without his touch.

"About the potential for your wound to result in a scar?" Sherlock asked, his voice adopting the tone it always did when he was attempting to avoid a question he knew that he was just moments away from answering. "As a former doctor I believe you would be a better judge of that than I" he added, leaning back on his heels and pressing his hands to his thighs, as he pulled himself up into a standing position. Joan swallowed and turned her head slightly to the side, wondering whether she should pursue the conversation now, wait until later, or forget it altogether, as she felt he was attempting to do. In the end she chose the former.

"I'm serious, Sherlock" she returned, her voice gentle but firm, as she looked up at him with tired and apprehensive eyes. Something in her voice made Sherlock's eyes soften slightly as he met her gaze. But the slight softening of his analytical gaze was the only sign that he realised just how much she needed to discuss the issue that she knew was at the front of both of their minds. His posture, manner and tone were the same as they usually were, and the drumming of his fingers against his thigh provided the only physical sign of his emotional discomfort. "Can we talk about this?" she asked gently. She saw Sherlock's chest rise and fall, before he nodded quickly in her direction, and his eyes became wide and wary once more.

"Of course, Watson" he returned, his voice calm and his tone normal, as if she had just asked him if they could get Italian instead of Indian take-out. Sherlock nodded once more, before taking a step back and easing himself back onto the table, perching on the edge with his hands clasped before him, like a misbehaving school-boy waiting outside the principal's office. Joan watched as he did so, using the time he took to settle himself to gather her own thoughts. But before she could pose a question or offer some reassuring statement, he spoke. "I believe I owe you an apology" he stated earnestly, looking up from his hands and meeting her eyes for a moment, nodding once more before averting her gaze. "Not just for leaving so abruptly, but… but for the event itself" he stated, not noticing the confused and slightly pained expression which passed across Joan's features, but was gone in less than a moment. "When I found you downstairs, and realised the nature of your injuries, I-" Sherlock paused, briefly, his fingers tapping lightly on his knuckles, as he glanced back towards Joan for a few seconds, then back to his hands. "I hope you will forgive me for-"

"I don't want an apology, Sherlock" she returned gently, her voice even and kind, despite the hurt she was currently feeling from his words. "I just want us to have a conversation" she explained, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. "This isn't something that just… happened, we… things have been different. Since we've been here" she continued, looking up at Sherlock, who was watching her with an unreadable but attentive expression. "I don't think this is something we can ignore anymore" she stated simply. She was trying to speak as carefully yet as candidly as she could, knowing that Sherlock would find the conversation difficult. Not that she was finding it easy, of course, far from it. But whatever the outcome of what she anticipated would be a difficult conversation, they needed to talk, before things got more complicated. Which, from the way Sherlock's breathing and eyes were changing, she could tell was a distinct possibility.

"I understand your concerns, Watson" Sherlock stated calmly, his words reminding Joan of her residency years when any concerns she rose were brushed off by other doctors. It annoyed her then, but if Sherlock did the same to her now, she didn't know if she would be able to deal with the combined frustration and hurt that it would cause her. Her initial concerned thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's speech. "The moments we shared a short while ago were something which I did not foresee" he continued, as though he were going over a mantra he had been preparing in his mind. "And although you do not wish me to apologise, I feel that I need to, due to my caddish behaviour and reckless conduct" he stated, speaking in a low and sincere tone. Joan blinked as Sherlock looked up towards her, as his words swam in her mind. The words 'caddish' and 'reckless' appeared to stand out greatest, causing her already existent confusion and frustration to grow slightly. She breathed in slowly and maintained her composure, responding to his statement in a calm and gentle manner.

"The only thing that is reckless is to dismiss the issue entirely, or to pretend it didn't happen" she replied, her voice gentle and kind. Sherlock looked up towards her as she spoke, his eyes fixing themselves on hers as he considered the words that he had already anticipated. "And even if that was an option which, I guess, it is" she stated, her voice becoming lower and slightly more solemn as she spoke. "Is that really what you want?" Sherlock continued to watch Joan for a couple of moments, his eyes drifting to the ground briefly before returning to her face.

"This is not about what I want, Watson" he stated simply, a slight level of frustration present in his tone. "What I want is of little consequence" he added, as he pushed himself up from the table. He was clearly finding the conversation difficult, and his levels of agitation were increasing. But they needed to talk.

"We both know that's not true" Joan replied gently, tilting her head back slightly as she looked up at him.

"Watson" Sherlock began, gesturing with his hand as he spoke, as his voice betraying his nervousness and agitation. "I did not wish to put you in an uncomfortable position, and I certainly did not mean for the boundaries of our relationship to be broken in such a manner. After what you had just been through, both of emotional states were heightened, and we acted impulsively. For me to compromise our friendship, and our partnership, was inexcusable-" he stated, waving with his hand and beginning to pace as he spoke. Joan parted her lips to speak and turned her head to the side, pressing her palms on her thighs and pushing herself into a standing position before turning to face him.

"Sherlock-" she stated calmly, watching as he stopped pacing and turned towards her. "It's alright."

"Alright?" he repeated, speaking the word as though its meaning was unfamiliar to him, exhaling as he stood before her, as his arms fell to his sides. "You were almost killed by a murderous human-trafficker who I failed to identify" he stated, gesturing to himself as he spoke, "and then we came upstairs to allow you to rest, when I made advances towards you-"

"This isn't a nineteenth century novel and I'm not some naïve little rich girl out of her depth" Joan responded, placing one hand on her hip as she spoke, which she regretted instantly, due to the soreness. She was trying to remain calm and maintain her composure, but she was finding it incredibly difficult under the current circumstances. She was tired, in pain and confused over what had happened between them, and his dismissive attitude of what had happened was both frustrating and hurtful. She didn't want to be difficult or unreasonable, she just wanted them to talk like adults, figure out what happened and decide how to deal with it. And although she was trying to push the thought to one side to avoid over-analysing it, the fact that Sherlock seemed to want to dismiss the moments they shared as a mere error of judgement caused by their heightened emotions following her attack pained her deeply. "This didn't just happen today. Things have been… different throughout the week, and we have been either too busy or too naïve to address them" she stated, her voice calming as she stood before him. "And even if this was about blame, which it's not" she stated with conviction, watching as Sherlock met and held her gaze, "I kissed you back" she added gently, watching as Sherlock's chest rose as he breathed. "And regardless of how you try to rationalise what happened between us, I refuse to allow it to be simply relegated to the category of a 'mistake' or 'error of judgement', okay?" she stated, as implications of Sherlock's words struck her with an almost physical force. "What happened, however impulsive or ill-advised, deserves more than that" she stated, fighting back the hot tears which were brimming in her eyes, "And so do I, and so do you" she added, her voice cracking slightly, before she inhaled a staggered breath in an attempt to recover herself.

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly as he looked over her cautiously, guilt and anguish burning inside him as he saw Joan's pained expression. He felt a desperate need to reassure her and so, without thinking, he took a single step towards her, their new closeness causing her to breathe in and turn towards him, facing him with as confident an expression as she was able to muster.

"I never said it was a mistake" he stated gently but with resolution, as their eyes became fixed on each other's. "And that is because I do not believe it was. I would not associate that term with the moments we shared, Watson" he continued, his voice calm and gentle. "But we cannot compromise our relationship, the bond that we share, that we almost lost entirely. We cannot afford to lose control" he added, attempting to speak calmly but with candour.

"That's just it, Sherlock" Joan returned gently, "I don't think that we did." A look of confusion passed across Sherlock's face for a moment, and he leaned back slightly as he considered her words, as though looking down upon her from a different angle would somehow make them seem clearer. It did not. "We've shared more physical contact in this past week than ever before. The last few days has been like an emotionally-charged tug-of-war, with one of us initiating contact and the other returning it, seeing how far it can go before the rope snaps or we both fall" she stated, pausing for a moment as Sherlock considered her analogy. "Although we've been undercover, things have been changing, Sherlock. And despite that, we've been in control for the entire week" she stated calmly, watching as Sherlock considered her with an attentive yet uncertain expression. "And after we kissed, I didn't feel this… this rope snap or break, and neither of us fell" she stated, thinking of how he walked out of the suite after their kiss, and wondering if this action would constitute the 'falling' part of her analogy. "After the events of today-"

"We both lost control" Sherlock responded in a low and calm voice. "Not completely, and not irreparably, but we did. We allowed ourselves to be overtaken by our emotions which, under the circumstances, is understandable, but-" Sherlock stopped talking as Joan inhaled deeply and turned on the spot, taking a few steps out of the small living space and closer towards the window. Sherlock lowered his hand and watched her for a few moments, walking around the table and taking a few steps towards her. Before he could continue to speak, she turned back towards him and addressed his statement.

"I don't know what this is" she admitted simply, her voice calm but her emotions battling for control. "Since coming here and working on this case… something has been happening, changing. I don't know what and I don't understand it, but what I do know is that it deserves and requires the respect and acknowledgement that you are denying it" she stated, taking a couple of steps towards him and calming herself as she spoke. "I know that you don't find this easy, and that this is confusing and taking you completely out of your comfort zone" she continued, speaking gently and with sincere compassion, "and for that I'm sorry" she stated, the word choking her, as she paused for a moment as his eyes ran over her. "But it happened, Sherlock. And we can't change that" she added gently. "What we need to do is figure out what happens next" she continued, her eyes not leaving his. "If you want to pretend it didn't happen, and for us to move forward as the partners we once were, then that's fine" she stated, the words causing her almost physical pain. "If that's what you want I understand, and I'll do everything I can to achieve that, and to rebuild what we had before" she continued, her voice becoming slightly choked as tears burned in her eyes once more. "But don't pretend that it was just a random and meaningless form of contact that shouldn't have happened" she added, looking into his eyes with her wide ones which were glistening with tears. "Because that would be more than 'caddish' and 'reckless', Sherlock" she stated, standing back slightly. "It would be cruel." As she finished her statement Joan turned from him and began walking back towards the half-open door to her bedroom. She was tired and upset and did not want to fall apart in front of him. She couldn't.

Sherlock watched as Joan walked back towards her bedroom, her dark hair swaying behind her as she moved. A combination of guilt and pain caused his chest to tighten, and he turned instantly on the spot and began to walk straight towards her, calling her name as he approached her.

"Watson" he called gently, increasing his speed as she ignored him and continued to walk. "Watson" he stated in a gentle and kindly tone, as he reached out his hand and captured hers. Sherlock continued to walk towards her and she turned around, her head low as she fixed her attention upon their hands, before looking up at him. Their bodies were mere inches apart, and his right hand was holding her left, which joined the space between them. To his surprise and gratitude, she did not walk away, or attempt to pull her hand from his. Instead she stood perfectly still, looking up at him with a patient yet weary expression. "Watson I could not bear to lose you" he stated in a low and candid tone, his voice so delicate that Joan found herself taking a moment to process his words and make sure she had heard him correctly. "Not again" he added.

"You haven't" she replied kindly, her voice as low and gentle as his had been. "You won't" she added resolutely. "Whatever this is, whatever you want to do, we'll deal with it" she stated simply.

"And what is it that you want?" he asked kindly, his eyes travelling across her face and focusing on her eyes.

"I just want you to be honest with me, Sherlock" she began gently. "But before that can happen you need to be honest with yourself" she added, before turning from him and taking a step towards her bedroom. As she did so Sherlock moved with her, their hands still clasped together, fitting like lost pieces of a favourite jig-saw puzzle, which now constructed was too painful to separate. Joan turned back towards him, their eyes meeting once more, and their bodies relaxing ever so slightly. It was clear that neither of them wished to let the other go.

"I've already discussed with you my inability to maintain certain types of relationships" Sherlock stated in a low voice. Joan did remember the conversation, and although it was difficult to hear, she knew that it was harder for him to say it. And she was grateful that he was finally beginning to open up to her, and discuss the matter at hand. "And on my ability to have meaningful connections with people" he added, punctuating his statement with a nod, as his fingertips ran lightly across the back of her hand in a reassuring and comforting manner which she was not sure if he was aware of. "At the best of times I am romantically self-destructive, and I am cruel and hurtful at my worst" he stated simply. "I do not wish for you to become entangled in the barbed-wire web that is my ability to maintain a romantic relationship with a person I care for" he added, pausing for a few minutes as Joan processed his words. "I meant what I said before" he began, causing Joan to look up at him expectantly. "I am not nice by nature. With you, I am simply extra-accommodating" he began, watching as she observed him with unblinking eyes. "And although we have discussed your unconventional nature when it comes to romance, you deserve more than to be merely accommodated" he stated, speaking the final word slowly and over-pronouncing each syllable. "You should be adored, Watson" he added, her eyes widening in surprise slightly as he spoke. "Completely and without reservation" he continued, his voice low and slightly husky. "I will not deny you that."

Joan was quiet for a few moments, her eyes meeting his as she considered his words. She considered bringing up the fact that, if he were not as 'nice' and were simply 'accommodating', he would not have considered the logic of his recent explanation, which he would never have spoken.

"What you said, just then, was more than nice, Sherlock. It was more than accommodating" Joan began, her voice calm and gentle. "It was honest. It was selfless, it was thoughtful and it was candid" she added, looking up at him as she spoke. "The only thing that has caused me any hurt or discomfort in the last few minutes is your inability to recognise that what you see as your biggest weakness or failure is actually by far your greatest strength" she stated, noticing how his brows furrowed slightly with confusion. "You're so busy focusing on the parts of you that you think are flawed or broken, that you seem to overlook the positive affect they have on you. They make you more open-minded, more mindful of others and wary of their needs. You utilise your weaknesses, not theirs" she added, still not convinced that he understood. "And that makes you strong. Stronger than most people, and stronger than you realise" she added. "And it is part of you that I have always appreciated, not feared" she added, becoming acutely aware of their current proximity and closeness. She could feel her heart pumping faster, and the rising and falling of his chest revealed that his heart-rate and breathing were increasing too. "Sherlock, what is it that you are so afraid of?" she asked gently, taking a step forward and placing her hand tentatively on his cheek as she spoke. He did not recoil or turn away, which she was grateful for. Instead, he placed his own hand over hers, holding it for a moment, before lowering their hands and stepping towards her, so that their bodies were touching.

"The only thing I fear greater than losing you, Watson, is hurting you" he stated simply, his eyes not meeting hers. "The time we spent together earlier, when we were-" he began, exhaling as he broke off, before looking up at her once more, "I felt as though I would not be able to stop", he stated, speaking slowly. "I did not want to stop" he added, his voice so low that it took her a moment to process his words. Joan tilted her head up and leaned closer to him, placing her hand back on his cheek and stroking the side of his face with her fingertips.

"Me neither" she breathed, her eyes meeting his, and noticing how wide his pupils had become once more. She could feel his heart beating against her chest as they stood close together, their clasped hands trembling with anticipation. "And at that moment, just as now" she continued, her voice become low and breathless as she leaned closer to him, the top of her nose lightly grazing his, causing him to inhale deeply, "I don't want to either" she added, her eyes closing as she leaned closer to him, her lips meeting his once more. Sherlock released a small breath against her lips, before returning her kiss immediately and tentatively, before it became passionate once more. Joan placed her hands on his neck and back, pulling him into the kiss, as he put his hand on her lower back and pulled her against him once more, causing her to groan and sigh against him, her hands exploring his hair and back. After a few minutes Sherlock and Joan opened their eyes, breathing heavily against each other's lips as their hearts beat against each other's in perfect unison. They stared into each other's eyes for several moments, their bodies hot and trembling with anticipating. A moment later Joan reached behind her, pushing the bedroom door fully open, and leading him inside.


	15. To Keep

A/N: Hey everyone, thank you for your support and responses to the last chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. I hope you enjoy this chapter too and, as always, any issues/concerns/comments/advice are all greatly appreciated J

Thank you,

HQ21

Joan pushed the door with her free hand and pressed her back against it, opening it further as Sherlock pressed his body onto hers and deepened the kiss. Joan moaned in response, walking backwards as the kiss continued in the same urgent and passionate manner, as Sherlock's hands travelled sensually up her back and neck. He placed one hand on her cheek and the other on her lower back, pressing her body to his as they stood still in the centre of the dim room, their hands exploring each other slowly and tentatively, as if each were waiting for the other to stop. After a minute or so of passionate kissing and exploratory hands, Sherlock and Joan felt their breathing become more laboured and their desire heighten to unprecedented levels, causing each form of physical contact they shared to make their hearts and minds race and their composure and control to slowly begin to fracture.

Joan felt Sherlock's hand leave her cheek and travel down her neck and back, before travelling down to her hips in a sensual manner, his hands trembling as he pulled her against him. Joan groaned in response, her hands trembling as she rose them to his face and neck, holding him to her as she pressed her body tightly to his own and deepened the kiss. If there had been a moment when they could both stop what was happening, it had long since passed, and they both knew it. But not only did they realise it had passed, they accepted it. Not in words or discussion, but in action. Despite the fact that neither of them wanting the unforeseen and unprecedented levels of physical intimacy which they were sharing to stop, they had been wary and tentative in their initial forms of contact. But the moment Sherlock drew Joan's body to his, and she moaned and pressed herself against him in response, they each realised that, regardless of the consequences or the implications, at that particular moment, they were both in perfect agreement as to what would happen next.

Sherlock and Joan continued to kiss for several minutes, his hands travelling up her back as she pressed herself against him, running her hands across his neck and her fingers through his hair as she moved her body against his. For a moment her movements remained tentative, despite her growing and almost uncontrollable desire. Their bodies had been pressed together for several minutes, with a growing intensity which was making them both feel as though their hips were affected by an as yet unsated, burning heat. After a few minutes Joan found herself unable to take it any longer, but she was conscious of Sherlock's possible conflict or discomfort, so wished to proceed with caution. She continued to kiss him for a moment, her hands travelling across his neck and the back of his head, before she pressed herself tightly to him and ground her hips against his. To her relief Sherlock reacted instantly, moving his hands down to her hips and pulling her against him with such force that she broke the kiss for a moment and exhaled a deep and staggered breath, before returning her lips to his as he ground his hips against hers, and they quickly created a satisfying rhythm.

The unsated desire which had caused their bodies to burn and tremble was being partially soothed, and as their bodies moved against each other in a rhythmic and sensual manner, they found a temporary release for the built-up sexual tension which had lingered between them for an unknown period of time. But after a few minutes of their bodies moving rhythmically together over their fully-clothed selves, their breathing becoming deeper and huskier as their vision darkened and clouded, they found that they still required more. The control that Sherlock had talked of them losing just minutes before threatened to not only fracture, but completely disintegrate. Even through their lust-filled minutes of romantic intimacy, they each found themselves facing temporary but definitive moments of clarity. These moments occurred mainly in the few painful occasions when they were forced to break their kiss in order to regain control of their breathing, which had been almost completely neglected in their current state. But the moments of clarity which were infrequent and temporary were certainly present, and were the closest they came to questioning what they were doing. But the moments were quickly overtaken by a feeling, sensation or innate need, which blocked them out entirely. But after a few minutes of intense kissing, touching and physical contact, Joan found herself forcing her eyes open and parting their lips, causing Sherlock to open his eyes instantly and search for hers.

"Sherlock" Joan breathed huskily against his slightly parted lips, her breathing ragged and her cheeks flushed. Her eyes were wide and glassy, and searching for answers in his, seeking approval and permission to continue. The look he was giving her in return told her that he was trying to do the same thing, and for a moment the irony of that dawned upon her, as she felt his hands tremble upon her hips and subconsciously draw her closer to him. She smiled slightly, exhaling a final shaken breath, before closing her eyes once more and kissing his lips with the same passionate intensity that had been building between them for the past few minutes. To her relief, Sherlock returned the kiss immediately, drawing her hips tightly to his.

Sherlock pulled her closer to him, relief and uncontrollable passion overtaking his body as he realised that they each consented to further intimacy. In a brief moment of clarity he had when their lips parted he found himself feeling surprised by their current situation. He had expected to return to the suite and apologise to Joan, which he anticipated would result in her reacting in a perfectly logical and rational manner which would make him feel guilt-ridden and self-condemning. But he did not doubt that his mind would be unchanged about what should happen next: he could not pursue a form of romantic relationship with Watson. Not because he was averse to the situation, but because he could not bear to hurt her, as he seemed to hurt all those who came close to him. He had hurt her when he left her and went to England. He felt certain that he had hurt her to a greater extent than he realised, and more than she would ever admit. But as they spoke, and as he listened to what she was saying to him, her logic and her reason battling his, he found that his was weaker and less durable than he thought it had been. He realised this just as she had turned to head to her bedroom, and some unknown and indefinable force within him had compelled him to act, pushing him forwards and directly towards her, urging him to be more open and honest with her than he ever had been before. His logic and reasoning had surrendered to hers, but as soon as he captured her hand in his and began to speak, he knew that it was a battle he was not only willing to lose, but hopeful that he would.

Sherlock sighed at the thought, drawing one hand around her hips and across her sides, before resting them on the front of her hip-bones. He felt Joan's heart beat slightly faster against his chest as he did so, and her lips trembled slightly upon his. He kissed her back in a gentle and reassuring manner, the passionate desperation of their lips stilling for a moment, and being replaced by something deeper, more sensual and yet, somehow, more intimate. Joan felt the burning desire in her stomach and hips increase as she anticipated what was happening next, and she was struck with a mixture of intense nervousness and relief when she realised that she was correct.

Sherlock's hands travelled slowly across her hips and stomach, resting by the tight-fitting waistband of her grey trousers. They stayed there for a moment, his fingers running across the band, as she breathed against his lips in a satisfied and almost musical manner, affirming her consent. Sherlock released a shaken breath against her slightly parted lips, before kissing her deeply as he drew his hands up slightly and tugged lightly on the bottom of her white cotton shirt. Joan hummed against his lips, pressing her hips against his and arching her back slightly, their lips parting for a moment as Sherlock pulled her top over her abdomen and chest, drawing it quickly over her neck and head and dropping it on the floor. Sherlock remained still for a moment, gazing at her taut and toned body before him, the smoothness of her skin offset by the white push-up bra she was wearing. But even through the relative dimness of the room, he could see the early signs of the deep purple bruising which was upon her side and abdomen. His passion ceased for a moment and was replaced by a burning and almost uncontrollable anger. But as he looked from her injuries to her face, and saw her wary and slightly nervous expression, his feelings of vengeance and rage disappeared almost entirely, and were replaced by a deeper and more innate form of desire. Not only did he want to be with Joan completely, but he wanted to heal her. He wanted to heal her in a manner devoid of vengeance or even medicine. He wanted to heal more than the physical signs of her ordeals, of what she had been through since knowing him and, in his mind, _because_ of knowing him. He wanted to heal _her_. Her being, her essence, her mind. Everything about her that he truly appreciated, and unquestionably adored. _Completely and without reservation_, he thought, as he took a tentative step towards her.

Before he could lean back towards her and continue their kiss, her felt Joan's hips pressed tightly against his, as her arms fell from their previously raised position and her hands gripped the bottom of his white buttoned-up shirt, which felt smooth and expensive beneath her fingertips. Sherlock shifted on the spot, allowing his black fitted suit-jacket to fall from his shoulders and onto the floor. Joan's eyes were wide and shining as she leaned against him, and she smiled as she pressed her lips against his once more, her hands travelling up his chest and to his collar. She continued to kiss him as her fingers quickly undid the first button, then the second and third. Joan felt the small level of control she had established in the last few moments dissolve completely, as the urge to feel his bare skin against hers consumed her, and in a moment of frustration and need she moved her hands down from the fourth button to the middle of his chest. Joan eased her fingers between the gaps between the buttons in his shirt, and pulled it forcefully, causing the material to tear, and the shirt to rip in half.

Joan parted her lips slightly and broke their kiss, looking up at Sherlock with slightly nervous but lust-filled eyes, as her hands remained on the remnants of the broken shirt. Her lips were lightly grazing Sherlock's, the side of their noses were slightly connected, and their eyes met. Joan stared into his eyes for a moment, and watched as a light and almost playful expression in his eyes, which she did not expect. A sardonic expression or questioning look, yes. But not the calm, relaxed and almost impressed expression which danced in his eyes. Joan found herself smiling against his lips, partly in relief and partly in amusement, as she leaned against him and continued to kiss him, moving her hands up his chest and drawing the shirt across his body and down his arms, dropping it onto the floor behind him.

Joan's previous calmness and ability to think logically and concisely in a non-sexual manner deserted her once more, and she pressed her body tightly to his, feeling her skin against his, as his hands reached her hips and their bodies moved against each other once more, their taut and supple skin of their upper-bodies meeting for the first time. Despite the fact that it was not the highest level of physical intimacy they had experienced that day, or even in that hour, it felt like it. The contact of his bare skin against hers sent them both over the edge which they had been balancing on precariously for past twenty minutes or so. Joan placed her palms upon his chest, exploring him with her hands, running her fingertips in an exploratory manner across his muscular physique, and breathing pleasurably against his lips in response. Sherlock moved his hands from her hips, moving them delicately up her sides. Even in his state of heightened passion and arousal, he was mindful of the injuries she had sustained which, due to the strength of the painkillers and the levels of her romantic anticipation, she was forcing aside. But Sherlock knew the dangers of aggravating her injuries, and would not cause her pain under any circumstances, even the ones they were under at the moment. As if sensing his concerns, Joan placed her hand upon his, which was tentatively stroking the purpling bruising which had appeared on her side, and appeared to be spreading slightly. Joan clasped his hand with hers and guided it over her bruising which, despite causing her a dull aching pain which she was attempting to suppress, was causing her no great degree of discomfort. She tilted her head to the side and their eyes met, their lips resuming their previous activities as Joan placed her hand upon his cheek and pressed her body tightly to hers.

Sherlock reacted immediately, his hands travelling from her hips and sides to her back, exploring her shoulder-blades for a few moments before running his fingers down her spine, causing her to groan as she arched her back as her whole body quivered with anticipation. Sherlock sensed this, his eyes opening as her lips left his, and her head fell back as she pressed her hips tightly against his own. Sherlock drew his hands back up her spine, holding her securely just beneath her shoulder blades, as she leaned up once more and met his gaze, their foreheads pressed together as they breathed breathlessly against each other's lips. Their eyes met for a moment, and in that moment they seemed to give each other consent to progress further.

Sherlock and Joan's eyes remained open for a moment, as Joan pressed her hands firmly to his chest, running them down his body and towards his trousers. She leaned back slightly as she looked down, her fingers working on undoing his belt, the feeling of her fingers against that part of his body causing his breathing to increase exponentially, which Joan picked up on almost instantly, his chest rising and falling quickly against her own, as their hearts beat in perfect unison. In a few moments Joan had undone the belt, and the sounds of their shaking breathing and racing hearts was overtaken by the clicking of the metallic clips of the belt. Joan allowed her fingertips to linger upon the material where the belt buckle had just been, her eyes widening and her breathing increasing with anticipation. She looked up at Sherlock, her eyes wide and expectant, and finding the same look staring back at her. Sherlock tilted his head to the side slightly, cupping her cheek with one hand and drawing her lips to his and kissing her slowly and sensually, as he felt her fingers linger upon him, the sound of her drawing his zipper down earning a moan from her and a breathless release from him. Joan's hands moved from the fallen zipper and to the top of his trousers, tugging on them as Sherlock assisted her in removing them completely, kicking them aside. Joan felt his fingers fall from her cheek and travel down her body, until they reached the familiar position at the waistband of her grey trousers. She had no belt or zipper, and part of her wondered what he was going to do next. And, as she had expected, she was pleasantly sated.

Sherlock's hand travelled across her waistband and across her body to her back, his hands moving down her lower back and bottom to the base of her thighs, as he pulled her against him. She groaned against him and released a breath which sounded like the melding of a cry and a moan, as she felt his hands go from holding her hips tightly to his, to pulling her up his body. Her pelvis brushed against his groin, causing her to moan at the contact, as he continued to draw her body slowly up his until she was forced to stand on her tip-toes, causing her eyes to open as she looked upon him with a hazy and expectant gaze. Sherlock's eyes appeared calm and relax, and he was watching her with interest, as if trying to work out if she knew what he was going to do. Before a moment had passed, Sherlock drew his hands down her body and pulled her up to him, causing her legs to wrap around his hips in response, her feet moving up his thighs until she wrapped herself around him. He placed one hand beneath her as a form of support and used his other to press her lower back to him, as their faces remained less than an inch apart and their lips met. Sherlock kissed her passionately for a few moments, before turning on the spot and carrying her towards the bed, laying her gently down upon it, her head resting on the pillows as she eased into the duvet cover, her legs wrapped tightly across Sherlock and drawing his body onto hers.

Sherlock lowered Joan's head onto the pillows and leaned over her, breaking the kiss for a moment to ensure that she was comfortable and wished to continue. The pressure her thighs were exerting in pulling him on top of her confirmed both, and continued to kiss her passionately, planting his hands onto the pillow either side of her head as he lowered his body onto hers. Joan moaned in response, her legs crossing on his back as she pulled him further on to her, as close as she could manage, wanting their bodies to be as connected as it was physically possible for them to be.

As Sherlock lowered himself on top of her, Joan felt his chest pressed tightly against her as she continued to draw his hips to hers. Sherlock broke their kiss for a moment and drew his face from hers, so his head was a few inches from her own. Joan opened her eyes, and watched as an absent-minded and unreadable expression passed over his features. Despite her heightened state of passionate arousal, Joan almost broke their actions and posed a question; but these intentions were prevented by Sherlock's next actions.

Sherlock removed his hand from Joan's hip and used it to draw some of her hair behind her ear, before splaying his fingers so that his thumb and fingertips rested on her forehead. Sherlock's thumb brushed against the dressing on her forehead, causing Joan's heart to pound hard against his, as he traced the length of the dressing with his fingertips. Sherlock stared at the dressing for a moment, before leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to it centre, causing Joan to close her eyes and attempt to recover her breathing. Sherlock removed his lips from her dressing before placing a kiss by the corner of her eye, weaving his hand into her hair as he kissed her slightly lower, and began placing a flourish of kisses upon her cheek and tracing them down her neck and towards her breastbone. Joan tightened her thighs around her lips in response, arching her back slightly as he placed a kiss in the centre of her chest, before drawing his head up her body and kissing her chest, neck and cheek on the other side of her. Sherlock drew his fingers lightly down her injured side, before placing his free hand beneath her body, tracing his fingertips up her arched back and towards the clasps on her bra, which he undid with one hand. Joan moaned against his lips, pressing her body to his and allowing him to draw her towards him as he ran his hand up the centre of her back and brushed her bra-straps from her shoulders, and she removed the garment from her body, dropping it to the floor with a breathless kiss upon his lips.

Sherlock lowered Joan gently to the bed, the contact of his pelvis upon hers with nothing but the thin material of their underwear between them causing their hearts to race and their heightened state of arousal to rise. A moment later Joan felt Sherlock grind his hips against hers, which she responded to instantly, and they recaptured the rhythm they had created whilst standing, as Joan's thighs tightened across his back and drew him closer to her. After a few minutes the pressure and the burning they were experiencing began to overwhelm them, and Joan found herself becoming almost completely consumed by it. But she placed her hands upon Sherlock's wrists, drawing them up his arms and neck and onto his face, using them to hold his face to hers as she broke their kiss and he opened his eyes. Sherlock placed his right hand upon her own cheek, and his curious eyes darted across her as he observed her flushed cheeks, laboured breathing and heightened state of arousal. He found his breathing recovering slightly as he looked down upon her, his fingers becoming entwined in her hair once more as he forced his way through his hazy and expectant gaze and focused upon the expression on Joan's face.

"Watson?" he asked breathlessly, his chest heaving against hers as he spoke. Joan drew her fingers down his cheeks, drawing his lips towards hers. He returned her gentle, tentative kiss, before drawing his head back once more, placing his hand over her own and drawing his fingers lightly onto her palm. Sherlock leaned up and looked into Joan's eyes, which were wide and lustful, but somehow serene and slightly nervous. Before he could react, he watched as she met and held his gaze with conviction, before nodding confidently a few times, and inhaling a shaking breath. Sherlock understood.

Joan leaned forwards, pressing her body tightly to his as she continued to kiss him, as she used her feet to push his underwear down his body. Sherlock leaned forward, his pelvis upon hers as he kicked his underwear from his ankles where Watson had, by use of some impressive tactic, managed to move down his legs in one confident movement. She found herself feeling less nervous as she watched the slightly confused but indisputably impressed expression upon his face, and she smiled slightly as she leaned up and kissed his lips gently. Joan then found his hand with hers, drawing it close to her body and guiding it down her side and hips and towards her underwear, where she left it. Sherlock accepted, placing his fingers beneath the band of her underwear and tugging them down, pulling them down her body and off her feet, before adopting his previous position above her, their bodies almost touching.

In the state they were in, the heightened arousal and innate desires and needs almost completely took over. But Sherlock, experiencing another moment of temporary clarity, looked down at her once more, their wide eyes meeting in the dimness of the room. Sherlock's hand travelled up her body and rested upon her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing against the bottom of the dressing on her forehead once more, as he breathed huskily against her lips. Joan watched him for a moment, before moving her hands up his sides and back, before planting her palms on his shoulder blades, drawing her knees up and wrapping her thighs around his body once more. She could feel Sherlock trembling with anticipation as she held him, applying gentle pressure to his shoulders and lower back as she encouraged him towards her. Receiving the permission he had been waiting for, Sherlock slowly lowered his body down towards her, and they connected, their bodies becoming uniting in a physical and emotional manner which left them breathless. Joan wrapped her legs tightly across Sherlock's back and drew him into her, their lips meeting as they moved together slowly and tentatively at first, before their desire and state of arousal took complete control, and they re-established the rhythm they had developed earlier, but in a deeper and more physical manner than they ever had before.

As they moved together, their bodies united and their hands moving over each other in a curious manner as they established a deeper sense of physical intimacy than they had ever experienced before, it struck both Joan and Sherlock that their current state did not seem awkward or uncomfortable. Their bodies seemed to connect naturally and completely, their bodies pressed tightly together as they breathed huskily and breathlessly against one another. On several occasions they found themselves breaking their kisses as their breathing became too laboured to continue, with Joan moaning against Sherlock and pulling him closer to her, their bodies trembling as they maintained their rhythm. Joan gripped Sherlock's back tightly with her hands and moaned against his ear, causing his hips to thrust against her deeper in response. Joan's heart beat strongly against his, her eyes closed and her lips parted, as she exhaled a deep and staggered breath, as she felt Sherlock's arms wrap themselves across her back and guide her gently back down towards the pillows. Sherlock and Joan continued to explore each other and allow themselves to be together in every way possible for what felt like an eternity, their heavy breathing and moans of contentment being the only sounds which broke the silence of the room. Until, trembling and exhausted, Joan's legs fell from Sherlock's back, and her arms weakened against him. He felt her laboured breathing decrease against his shoulder, her hot breath grazing his cheek as he supported her body with his arms and lowered her gently onto the bed. He leaned over her and tried to control his breathing as he felt his own weakened and tired body tremble. Joan's eyelashes fluttered and she rose her arms weakly to him, her shaking limbs drawing him closer to her. Sherlock accepted, placing his hand upon her cheek and kissing her in a gentle and sensual manner, the gentle sound of their lips parting breaking the silence, as Sherlock drew the covers aside and eased her beneath them. Joan moved willingly, turning onto her uninjured side to face him as he joined her beneath the covers, placing his left arm across her body, causing her to edge closer to him, so their bodies were pressed together once more. Sherlock and Joan faced each other on the pillow, their tired eyes reflecting the day they had just experienced. Sherlock watched as Joan's eyes flickered shut, remaining closed for several moments, before her breathing adopted a calmer and more rhythmic pattern which confirmed she was asleep. Sherlock reached his hand to her cheek and drew his fingertips across her soft skin, before leaning back against the pillow and allowing himself to sleep.

Sherlock and Joan slept soundly for several hours, their bodies recovering from the physically and emotionally strenuous events of the day. Neither of them stirred or awoke, their dreams, if they were indeed dreaming, ensuring that they remained safely maintained in a deep and comforting sleep.

Although their sleep was deep and peaceful, and they remained oblivious to any and all outside factors and events, they were not, even in their most weary and tired selves, unaffected by interruption to their calm and idyllic states. Therefore, when a harsh banging upon the door of the suite began, followed by a chorus of calls from their familiar colleagues, their eyes opened wide, and Sherlock placed his arm tightly across Joan, drawing her protectively against him.

"Holmes! Watson!" called Captain Gregson through the incessant banging, which was quickly sobering the weary and recovering detectives, as Joan stared at the startled Sherlock in a state of panic and uncertainty.


	16. In Joy

A/N: Hi everyone J Thank you for reading the last chapter, and thanks again to those who took the time to review, your comments really helped. I'm sorry if it was a bit disappointing, I know it probably wasn't exactly what was wanted. The reason I wrote it the way I did was that I believe that, in the context I have written the characters in this story, the first time they slept together would have been full of nervousness, concern and uncertainty. Their relationship changed fairly quickly, and when Watson was hurt, I thought it made more sense that the first time they were together would be more focused on the exploratory, tentative, emotional and sensual acts associated with sex than a ripping-clothes-off-and-throwing-each-other-against-a-wall type encounter (in these particular circumstances, at least.) But I completely understand if the chapter was unsatisfactory, and I apologise for that.

I hope you like this chapter, which is quite brief, so I will aim to upload another one in the next few days. Things will be progressing with the case and the relationship between Joan and Sherlock. So, as always, please don't hesitate in letting me know your thoughts/feelings/advice on any issues you find.

Thank you, and happy reading!

-HQ21

Joan's eyes widened as the dull pounding on the front door of their suite roused her completely from her sleep. She pushed herself up from the bed and hugged the sheet close to her, forgetting her complete state of undress for a moment. The coldness she felt as the cool air in the room swept across her skin was overtaken by the unbearable hot flush of panic that threatened to consume her. Before Joan could react to the loud banging and calling of the familiar voice of Captain Gregson, she felt movement from her left, and turned to find that Sherlock disentangled himself from the sheets and was searching for his clothing, picking up his trousers, shirt and suit jacket.

Sherlock ambled tiredly through the dim room, picking up his necessary items of clothing and holding them to him. Joan watched in her dazed and half-conscious state as Sherlock pulled on his trousers, securing the belt quickly as he swayed slightly, his balance off-set by his tiredness. A moment later he attempted to put his shirt on, which Joan remembered having torn the night before. Sherlock seemed to recall this fact at the same time, holding his arms in the air for a moment and observing the three extremely loose buttons which remained near the bottom of the shirt, before pulling his suit jacket over his shoulders and securing all the buttons at the front, concealing his shredded shirt. _He's clearly done this before_ Joan mused as she watched Sherlock walk across the room and towards the doors, heading through them and shutting them firmly behind him as he left, not casting a single glance backwards. Joan felt her heart still for a moment, and fear gripped her. Was he embarrassed? Ashamed? Regretful? _No_, she decided. _He doesn't want Gregson and Bell to walk in on us both naked and in bed together. He's throwing himself into the line of fire to protect me,_ she thought, marvelling at the fact that his behaviour was courteous and considerate. She smiled slightly, before turning onto her uninjured side and turning on the bedside light and glancing at the clock, which revealed that it was just before eight o'clock in the evening. _This isn't a battle he is going to fight alone,_ she thought.

Sherlock exhaled a long, deep breath as he walked briskly across the suite, his shoulders set and his legs aching slightly from the night before. He felt weary and slightly groggy, with memories from the sexual encounter with Joan Watson playing over and over again in his mind. Even as Sherlock reached for the door, unhooking the security chain and opening the door, he could picture the look of desire and breathlessness upon Joan's face before she fell tiredly upon the pillows.

"Captain, Detective" Sherlock began, stepping aside as he greeted the detectives, who walked quickly into the suite, before the door closed firmly behind them.

Sherlock turned on the spot and focused his attention on Gregson and Bell, who were watching him with a puzzled but slightly distracted look, and he wasn't surprised. From the brief glance at his reflection he saw from the mirror above the mantelpiece, Sherlock knew that his eyes were tired and his hair slightly dishevelled, which was not assisted by the fact that he was wearing his evening suit without shoes or socks. Thankfully, his casual and often defiant state of dress meant that Gregson and Bell soon got over their confusion regarding his current attire.

"Where's Miss Watson?" Captain Gregson asked, glancing around the rooms before him, then resting his gaze on Sherlock, who was recovering himself and sounding much more awake.

"Resting" he returned simply, lifting his eyes to meet Gregson's gaze, and punctuating his answer with a nod. "She has had rather an exhausting day."

"You don't look so good yourself" Bell stated in a low tone. Sherlock sighed at this remark, his eyes drifting over to the detective briefly, before returning his attention to Captain Gregson.

"Are you both okay?" Gregson asked, Sherlock's tiredness and the fact that he had not issued Bell with a cutting remark concerning him slightly. He saw first-hand how much Sherlock blamed himself for Joan's kidnapping ordeal, and he had no doubt that he had found some semi-logical way to blame himself for her recent attack too.

"Quite" Sherlock returned, pressing his lips together as he spoke, before staring at Gregson with an attentive expression. "May I ask what warranted the assault upon the door? Not that I am particularly concerned, of course. Any damage incurred will be charged to the city" he added. Before Gregson could respond, Sherlock heard the sound of the bedroom doors opening from behind him. He looked up instantly and watched as the fully-clothed and completely composed figure of Joan Watson emerged from the room, closing the doors behind her and walking confidently over to himself and the detectives.

"Hey" Bell stated, his voice devoid of the professional or mocking tone he had used with Sherlock earlier. "You okay?"

"Fine. Thanks" Joan responded simply, crossing her arms to her, which pulled the thick white cardigan she was wearing across her body, almost encasing her completely. Sherlock studied her for a moment, observing how she had applied some make-up to conceal the bruising which was beginning to form around her eye. She was still wearing the dressing on her forehead, and from her walk he discerned that she was in a notable amount of discomfort. Although this was almost certainly due to her injuries, Sherlock found himself wondering whether their recent physical activities had aggravated those injuries. He found himself feeling a pang of guilt as she offered Gregson and Bell and weary smile, before directing her attention towards Sherlock briefly, her eyes meeting his for a moment, before the sound of Gregson's voice caused her to turn towards the Captain.

"Sorry to wake you, Miss Watson" Gregson began, earning a small nod from Joan. "We were knocking for a while but couldn't get a response-"

"-and neither of you were answering your cell phones, which is unusual-"

"As I explained" Sherlock interceded. "Miss Watson was asleep. I placed our phones on silence so as not to disturb her. I must have fallen asleep and not noticed your calls, I apologise" Sherlock stated in a low, solemn tone, before turning back towards Gregson expectantly, causing the Captain to sigh whilst offering them both an apologetic look.

"My guys haven't been able to locate Leo yet" he stated simply, glancing from Sherlock to Joan, who he fixed his attention on, speaking to her with an almost paternal sense of reassurance and comfort. "CCTV shows him headin' to the parking lot in the basement floor of this building. A couple minutes later a silver SUV left the lot and headed west."

"We're looking into CCTV footage and traffic cameras from surrounding areas, hoping to trace him through the city or catch his license number" Bell stated, adjusting his position as he spoke.

"Okay" Joan stated after a few moments had passed in silence. "What about Dalton and his associates?"

"Dalton, Adams and his other pals are all still in the building" Bell returned. "But when we came back a few minutes ago, the receptionist informed us that they have moved their departure date up to the day after tomorrow."

"Right" Joan stated tiredly, inhaling deeply and crossing her arms tighter, before looking up at the detectives with a confident stare.

"Based on recent events, as well as the fact that Leo has absconded" began Gregson in a low and hesitant tone which instantly attracted the attention of Sherlock and Joan. "We wanna get you outta here, Miss Watson."

"What?" she returned, frowning in confusion for a moment, before relaxing slightly upon realising the nature of Gregson's concerns. "Captain that's not-"

"This guy attacked you and now he's on the run. From what happened downstairs, it's clear that he blames you for stumblin' upon him trying to destroy evidence that could put him away for decades" Gregson stated. "He's a ruthless individual who now bears a grudge against you, someone who has icompromised his plans and his cover. We can't guarantee that you're safe here."

"Nor can you guarantee that he's going to come back" Joan countered. "In fact, that seems pretty unlikely, given the fact that there is a city-wide manhunt searching for him, and police officers throughout this building. He's not coming back" she stated, her voice adopting the comforting expression that was almost exclusively reserved for Sherlock, who was standing unusually silent beside her. "Besides, Dalton and the others are only in the hotel for another day. I'm not going to compromise the safety of those girls by leaving early because Leo might come back" she stated, her voice cracking slightly as she spoke his name. "Captain, I don't believe he is coming back. There is nothing to suggest-"

"Leo still has a key-card which opens every door in this building" Bell interjected, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "Includin' the one I just _assaulted"_ he added, over-pronouncing the word as he glanced towards Sherlock, who met his gaze. Detective Bell was clearly trying to elicit a response from Sherlock and, presumably, entice him to agree with the police officers in the room and insist that Joan left immediately to be taken to a place of safety until Leo's capture.

"He's not coming back" Joan stated with certainty, finding herself slightly annoyed at the nineteenth-century views on the abilities of women which appeared to be playing out in her hotel suite. "He achieved what he came to do here. He met with Dalton and his associates and secured the deal" she continued. "Coming back to exact revenge on me is an illogical risk that he cannot afford to take. By the sounds of it, the deal is going down in less than thirty-six hours, _that _is where his attention is gonna be right now" she added resolutely, glancing from Gregson to Bell as she spoke. Her ribs were sore and her head was pounding. She was not in the mood for the overprotective, testosterone-based logic that was filling the room. She wanted to take a couple of painkillers and sit quietly for a few minutes, before having what she felt certain would be an interesting conversation with Sherlock, whose silence was beginning to concern her.

"Look, I get what you're saying" Gregson stated, sighing and taking a step towards her, her thought process shattering as he did so. "But it really somethin' you feel able to risk? Given what happened just a few hours ago?" he asked, lowering his tone to a one of respect and concern. "I know you don't wanna talk about this, think about it or even _entertain_ the notion" Gregson continued, gesturing with his hands as he spoke. "But what if he does come back?"

"If he does, Captain" Sherlock interjected, causing all parties to turn towards him in surprise, "I assure you, he will not get close enough to Watson to identify the colour of her blouse, let alone cause her any further harm" Sherlock stated resolutely, in a manner which inspired some degree of confidence from all those in the room, but especially Joan, whose eyes drifted gratefully towards her partner.

"A Sherlock-shaped guard-dog may not be enough" Bell stated in a low tone, causing Sherlock and Joan to turn towards him.

"I daresay I'll be of more use that the dozen or so officers you had in the building at the time of Watson's attack, who did absolutely nothing to assist her" Sherlock stated, taking a step towards Bell as he spoke. The room instantly became tense, and both Joan and Gregson took a step towards their partners in the hopes of placating them. "I imagine they must have found some some j-walkers or children skate-boarding in the lobby, who demanded their attention more than a human trafficker nearly fatally assaulting an associate of the NYPD" Sherlock spat, his eyes ablaze and his whole body stiff and trembling slightly as he spoke. Joan felt slightly panicked, the quick change in her partner's demeanour surprising her, and causing her grave concern.

"Sherlock-" Joan stated in a low yet confident manner, turning to the side and looking up towards him, but she received no response. Sherlock was staring with a cold and unblinking gaze at Detective Bell, who was wisely not responding to his remarks. Joan was grateful for this, as she was uncertain of how her partner would react to anything returned by Bell. After a few moments of silence, Gregson placed his hand on Bell's shoulder and edged him slightly to the side, before standing tall before Sherlock, who blinked a couple of times before looking up at him.

"That's enough, Holmes" Gregson stated in a low yet final tone. Sherlock did not respond to this statement, and after a few moments of surveying him carefully, Joan leaned slightly closer to him and placed a hand on his left shoulder blade. She felt Sherlock's tense muscles relax slightly beneath her touch, and his shoulders fell as he blinked himself from his anger, exhaling deeply as he nodded at Gregson in response. "We're gonna post some officers to your floor, they'll be here constantly, got it?" Gregson stated, making it quite clear that _this_ was not up for negotiation.

"Fine, thank you" Joan stated, speaking before Sherlock had a chance to argue. "Thank you Captain" she added in a calm, relaxed tone. Gregson nodded towards her in response.

"You need anythin', you call me. Alright?" Gregson added, his authoritative tone melting away into his paternal one which, for the first time that evening, Joan felt grateful for.

"Of course" she returned, her fingers drifting lightly down Sherlock's shoulder blade and back, before her hand fell from his body completely. "Thank you again. And please keep us updated."

"You got it" Gregson returned with a nod. Sherlock took a step past the detectives and held the door open for them, watching them silently as they left, before closing it firmly behind them.

"Are you okay?" Joan asked kindly, her voice resonating in the room before Sherlock had even replaced the security chain.

"Yes, of course" he mumbled, nodding as he spoke. Joan stared at him for a moment, clasping at the warm woollen material of her knitted cardigan as she watched him. The tension in his body seemed to have disappeared, but his nervousness was clear. And instead of being able to sleep for a couple of hours, wake before her and spend some time in his den, processing the events of the afternoon, he had been hauled from his bed and forced to confront a myriad of issues all at once. But then again, so had she.

"It wasn't their fault" Joan stated simply, the words escaping her mouth before the rest of her statement had fully formed itself in her mind. Sherlock's hand fell from the lock and he turned towards her, his eyes wide and alert and his expression unreadable. "Gregson, Bell, the police. The only person responsible for what happened in the wine cellar is Leo" she stated resolutely, relieved that she had been able to pronounce his name with more confidence this time. "You know that, right?" she asked gently. Sherlock blinked a couple of times, before inclining his head slightly and nodding against his chest. He then rose his head to face her, and met her apprehensive gaze with a reassuring one.

"Yes, Watson, I do" he stated simply, exhaling as he spoke. And he meant it, too. Well, almost. He was frustrated that he had reacted as he had, although he felt that there was at least a notable part of logic in his argument. But his actions had clearly distressed Joan to some degree, and that was what he was truly sorry for. "I apologise" he stated, meeting her gaze resolutely. Joan nodded in response, relaxing slightly as she did so, and facing him with a more confident gaze. There was a comfortable yet uncertain silence which fell between them for a few moments, as if paralysing their abilities to think or to speak. Joan did not know whether to be nervous or grateful, and in the end she was neither. She was, she was not surprised to find, a strange combination of them both.

"What happens now?" she asked solemnly, causing Sherlock's eyes to widen slightly as he processed her question. He adjusted his position slightly, drumming his fingers on his thigh for a moment before looking back up at her and addressing her query.

"There is little we can do to locate the whereabouts of Leo. As loathe as I am to admit it, the police force appear to be being less inadequate than usual in their attempts to trace him" he began, staring at her as he spoke but not really _looking_ at her. Despite this, he still sensed the nervousness which was beginning to creep through her. And, if he were being honest, through himself too. "I believe we should focus our efforts on Dalton and his associates, whose imminent departure means that we must work quickly" he stated, nodding as he spoke and looking towards Joan, who was watching him with a solemn expression. Sherlock's eyes fell from her body instantly, as a notable amount of guilt began to flood his body. "We should reach out to Catherine Adams. She is certainly amenable to talking, and would almost certainly be prepared to meet us once more, especially after recent events."

"That's not what I meant" Joan stated solemnly, gripping the soft woollen material as she spoke once more. She had not been referring to the case, but the time she and Sherlock had spent together in a room less than twelve feet from where they were standing. Despite the urgency of the case, and their need to act quickly, she knew that they would not be able to work as effectively and successfully as they were able to with such a large proverbial elephant in the room. And she would not risk the well-being of those girls to ensure her own temporary comfort. And nor, she was relieved to find, was he.

"I know" Sherlock stated, adjusting his jacket as he took a step towards her. Sherlock and Joan stood opposite each other in silence for a few moments, their eyes meeting and their minds racing, but neither of them feeling able to speak. The only sound which passed between them in the next few moments was the gentle pinging of a damaged white button falling from Sherlock's ripped shirt and onto the tiled area on the ground.


	17. In Sorrow

Joan inhaled slightly at the sound of the button hitting the ground, her mind taking her back to the moment she spread her fingers through Sherlock's shirt and ripped it from his body. She blinked the memory away, lowered her gaze slightly and exhaled, before turning her eyes back to his face and meeting his wary and alert gaze.

"This is definitely not something we can avoid talking about" she said in a low and gentle tone. "If we ignore it it's just going to make things difficult and confusing, and we can't afford to have any distractions or impaired judgement right now. Not with everything that's going on, and how close we are to getting those girls back" she stated, her voice solemn and kind. Joan watched as Sherlock shifted on the spot slightly, his hands hanging limply by his sides as he blinked at her words. "I know this probably isn't something you want to talk about and I'm sorry, but-"

"Sorry?" Sherlock interjected, his eyes narrowing in confusion as she looked up to meet his gaze. "Sorry? No, Watson, please don't apologise. It is quite unnecessary" he stated, sounding very calm and composed, which surprised Joan. She had expected him to act defensively, and to either make light of what had happened or dismiss it as something which did not require their attention even for a moment. Instead, he was being calm, patient and accommodating. Considerate, even.

"Okay" Joan breathed, blinking as she looked up at him, and waiting for him to continue. After a few moments of silence she began to doubt that he would utter another word, he began to speak.

"What happened, Watson, happened" he stated, his voice gentle and reassuring. "It is not something either of us need to apologise for, regardless of how we may view the… the time we spent together in hindsight."

"I don't regret it" Joan returned, the confidence in her tone surprising her. "Even if it was a one-time thing that never happens again, I do not regret it. Not at all." She concluded, her voice becoming lower as she spoke, as her mind finally caught up with her words, which surprised her slightly.

"I am glad, Watson" Sherlock stated, nodding as he spoke. "Nor do I" he added, watching her nervously as he spoke. "And while I am relieved that neither of us harbour any ill-feelings or regrets towards the event itself, or each other, we must still address your original question" he continued, watching as she gripped the warm woollen fabric of her cardigan once more. "What happens now" he stated, posing it as more of a statement than a question. There was a comfortable silence which fell between Sherlock and Joan, and after a few moments Sherlock sighed lightly and moved his arms from his sides. "Apart from you acquiring a new shirt for me, of course" he stated, moving his arms theatrically and smiling slightly. Joan exhaled a nervous laugh in response before looking up at him, her eyes wide and filled with relief. Before she could speak, a sharp knocking upon their door caused her attention to become diverted, as Sherlock spun around and headed towards the door, glancing through the peep-hole before opening the door.

"Ms Adams" Sherlock greeted amiably, holding the door open to her as she passed through. "We were just talking about you" he continued, remembering that he had briefly mentioned setting up another meeting with her to Watson just a few minutes ago.

"Oh?" she asked, turning from Sherlock to Joan, and stopping still on the spot. Her eyes scanned Joan's face quickly, blinking a couple of times as she focused on the dressing on her head. "Are you alright?" she asked Joan, nodding towards her forehead. Joan narrowed her eyes in confusion for a moment, before nodding slowly in response.

"Fine" she stated simply, as Sherlock turned on the spot and walked over to Joan and Catherine, ushering them into the living area. Catherine sat on the sofa opposite Joan in the armchair, whilst Sherlock stood tall against the fireplace, the collar of his tattered shirt drooping slightly after an unsuccessful attempt at adjusting it.

"Forgive me for expressing confusion, Ms Adams" Sherlock began, causing the well-dressed woman to look towards them. "But how is it that you did not hear of Miss Watson's attack?"

"Attack?" she repeated, looking from Sherlock to Joan. "Leo Clements. It was you he attacked?" she asked, surprise marring her usually relaxed and confident composure.

"Yes" Joan responded simply. "You mean you didn't know?" she asked, relief washing over her. If this were true, it could mean that other guests were also oblivious to her attack, and that their cover for the rest of the hotel patrons was still maintained. "Does Dalton?"

"No" Catherine returned immediately. "He told me that his contact at the hotel was called Leo Clements, and had been posing as a waiter for several months ahead of our arrival here. He also knows that Leo seriously assaulted a police officer before leaving the hotel, but that's all" she added, glancing from Sherlock to Joan, whose body she scanned quickly with her eyes, before running her fingers around the bracelet she wore as she turned towards Joan. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, absolutely" Joan responded, offering Catherine a reassuring smile as she spoke. The woman's clear concern for her well-being was quite touching, and although she was uncertain as to why it would concern her at all, she found herself wondering whether it was because she was trying to ascertain whether her daughter would be sustaining similar injuries at the hand of the monster who had attacked her. Before she could consider this further, the dull aching pain at Joan's side appeared to be becoming more intense, and her head was starting to throb. Sherlock noticed as Joan paled slightly, swallowing hard as she fought the nausea which she was currently experiencing, which was related to the pain coming back to her all at once. He imagined that the drugs she was given several hours ago were beginning to wear off, and he found himself feeling slightly guilty at the thought that their activities in the earlier part of the afternoon could have caused her additional discomfort.

"Watson?" he asked simply, pushing himself off the fireplace and taking a step towards her.

"It's fine, I'm fine" she mumbled, not noticing the looks of concern exchanged between Sherlock and Catherine. "The painkillers are wearing off, that's all" she stated. Before she could continue to speak, Sherlock had walked towards the table and was removing something from the pharmacy bag, which he handed to her, along with a fresh bottle of water. Joan accepted the items, which included the stronger over-the-counter painkillers that one was able to purchase, and took them gratefully. A few moments later she swallowed the water and leaned back in the chair, waiting for the pills to take effect. "Thank you" she mumbled to Sherlock, her warm and soothing voice reassuring him slightly, though not relieving him of his guilt. "So, what's happening?" Joan asked, turning her attention to Catherine, who was watching Joan wearily. "With Dalton and everyone. Captain Gregson told us that he's moved his departure date to the day after tomorrow."

"Yes" Catherine replied immediately, leaning back in her seat and appearing to relax slightly. "As soon as he heard that Leo had assaulted a police officer and then absconded, he feared that the increased police attention upon this hotel and its employees would put him at risk. And, more specifically, his deal" she stated, pronouncing the final word with disdain.

"Do you know anything about the… exchange?" Sherlock asked tentatively.

"Very little, I'm afraid" she returned immediately, frustration clear in her tone. "I am not privy to too much information. All I know is that a deal has been made for all fourteen girls, and that the _exchange _ is to take place shortly after our departure from the hotel the day after tomorrow" she stated, watching as Sherlock and Joan nodded in understanding, having just had what they believed to be true confirmed. "Dalton is keen to leave before seven o'clock in the morning that day, and we are scheduled to fly home that afternoon" she explained. "Although I am not aware of the specifics of the arrangement, I would imagine that the girls will be either driven to another state or taken by cargo ship. Which of those it is would be easily discernible if I knew the location of the meeting, which, unfortunately, I do not" she added.

"You've been very helpful, thank you" Joan soothed, sensing the woman's frustration at not knowing the location or well-being of her daughter. "You risked a lot to come here tonight, with Dalton clearly knowing who we are."

"Dalton is far too wrapped up in the police presence in the hotel to be overly concerned about my whereabouts" she sighed, tracing her finger along the cool armrest of the couch, before turning back to Sherlock and Joan. "Besides, coming here and talking to you in person is certainly safer than communicating electronically."

"I quite agree" Sherlock responded. "That being said, your presence here for much longer could lead Dalton to notice that you are missing, which, in his current state, would almost certain make him more paranoid."

"Which would be a great risk to you" Joan stated in a low and solemn tone. Catherine nodded slightly, before pushing herself up from the couch and standing tall opposite Sherlock.

"You're both right, of course" she began. "And I apologise for the intrusion. But I needed to inform you of the developments regarding the departure date" she continued, looking from Sherlock to Joan. "What I do not understand is why we are not leaving _tomorrow_. Dalton is clearly unnerved by today's events, so why wait an entire day before leaving?"

"Perhaps he think it'll look suspicious if he leaves?" Joan offered.

"On the contrary, Watson" Sherlock interceded, "it would make perfect sense. An employee is murdered and a guest viciously assaulted. It is completely understandable that such violent acts would lead to patrons vacating the premises immediately. In fact, their remaining in the building is arguable more suspicious."

"I agree" Catherine returned. "I have not been told anything about tomorrow, and it appears that the arrangements for the transfer have already been made" she added. "So why are we still here?"

"That is something that only close surveillance and mutual contact will be able to ascertain" Sherlock stated, earning a nod from Joan and Catherine. "Which will be rather difficult considering that he already knows who we are" he added, sighing deeply at the complexity of the issue.

"Again, I agree" Catherine added, opening her purse and pulling out a memory stick, which she handed to Sherlock. "Which is why I set up spy cameras in Dalton's room whilst he was being interviewed by the police regarding your associate's death" she stated. "The footage is live, it's streaming from his room to the device you plug this into." Sherlock accepted the memory stick from her, running it between his fingers as he looked up at her.

"Another great risk, Ms Adams" he stated solemnly. "Though I quite understand your reasons for doing so."

"We are all seeking to achieve the same goal, Mr Holmes" she responded professionally, her voice devoid of emotion or concern. "Risks must be taken." Sherlock nodded in response, which was returned by Catherine, who promptly turned on the spot and walked out of the living area. "Thank you both" she stated, pulling her purse to her as she walked to the door. Sherlock followed her, opening the door for her and nodding politely as she departed.

Sherlock closed the door firmly behind her, before turning on the spot and walking slowly over to Joan, who had already set up Sherlock's laptop and placed it on the table before him. As she closed down two screens and opened up the final one, she felt her breath catch in her throat and her heart still for a moment. On the screen before her was the grainy footage of a man she identified immediately as Leo Clements. Joan released a shaky breath as her eyes drifted hazily over the image, before focusing on the tattoo on his wrist. As she glanced upon it, she found herself instantly reminded of his hand pressed tightly to her as he threw her against a wall, her head slamming into it on impact. Before she could consider the image any further, Sherlock had reached across her and closed down the screen, pulling the laptop across the table and away from her, causing her to blink rapidly as she tried to escape her memories.

"Watson" Sherlock asked gently, the kindness in his tone causing her to relax slightly.

"I'm fine" she stated confidently, looking up at him as she spoke. Before she could utter another word, Sherlock had lowered himself onto the couch beside her, and was sat a few inches away, watching her with a patient yet concerned expression.

"It is not fine, Watson" Sherlock began, his voice solemn and kind. "And that's perfectly alright" he continued, watching as her chest rose and fell with her increased breathing. "You were attacked by that man just a few hours ago. His current whereabouts are unknown, and despite your assurances to the Captain and Detective Bell, I know that you are not convinced that he will not return" he stated tentatively, conveying the information in as gentle a manner as he was capable under the circumstances. "But I also know what I assured you of before, Watson, in the presence of our colleagues" he stated, watching as Joan slowly turned her head towards him and watched him with interest. "And that is that I will not allow that man to harm you. Not again" he stated, the conviction and certainty in his voice making the statement sound almost absolute. But as the dull aching of her side began to subside, and her head felt clearer and less clouded, Joan found herself realising that, regardless of Sherlock's abilities and devotion to her, he could never be in possession of that certainty, and nor could she.

"It's okay" Joan replied after a few moments of silence. "Dwelling on that will not help us, and it won't help the girls. We have very little time left before the transfer, we should start studying the surveillance footage that Catherine risked so much to set up" she stated, holding her hand out for the memory stick. Sherlock watched her for a few moments, and she could practically hear his thought process as he observed her with calm and unblinking eyes. She felt that she knew his next words even before he spoke them.

"As your said before, Watson" Sherlock began, his voice as gentle and tentative as it had been before. "Ignoring such an important issue could have an impact on our judgement and our ability to work on bringing this case to a successful and safe conclusion" he continued gently. A silence fell between them for several moments, and Joan clasped her hands in her lap whilst working on re-establishing a calming breathing pattern, as she felt the weight of Sherlock's concerned gaze upon her. "I do not wish to force you into revealing information which makes you uncomfortable, or place you in a position that causes you any distress" he continued, causing Joan to turn towards him and watch him with an impassive expression. "What I want is for you to know that this is not like the last time" he stated, speaking slowly and clearly. Joan narrowed her eyes in confusion and leaned back slightly as she watched him. "I will not be running away, Watson. I will not flee to London or to any other place which is outside of this city, even this building, for the time being" he added, hoping a small amount of lightness would relax her slightly. "I will not run from what happened this morning, or from what occurred between us this afternoon" he stated simply. "And if you feel unable to discuss either of those events at the present moment, that is absolutely fine, and I will respect your decision" he stated with conviction, punctuating his statement with a nod. "If all that is mentioned of both events is what I say next, then please" he began, watching as Joan's eyes widened slightly as she took in what he was saying. "Know that I will not run from either situation, or from you. I will be, as always, right here" he stated, his voice becoming low and solemn. "By your side." Sherlock watched as Joan lowered her head slightly, her hair drifting across her cheek as her eyes became glassy and tearful, which she attempted to conceal. The thought of her attempting to appear brave once more pained him deeply, and he wished to console her. Sherlock edged slightly closer to her, placing his hand upon her own and lacing their fingers together. A small, staggered inhalation of breath came from Joan's parted lips, before she clasped his hand in return, and then relaxed her fingers beneath his. A moment later, Joan's body tensed slightly, and Sherlock could feel her hand tremble beneath his.

"I have to shower" she stated abruptly, standing up on the spot and removing her hand from his, before heading straight across the room and towards the bedroom, closing the doors tightly behind her. Sherlock sat motionless and silent for several moments, until the sound of the shower drew him from his thoughts.

Sherlock turned his head to the side, and stared at the closed doors for a few moments, as the memories of the past few moments flooded to the forefront of his mind. Although Watson's reaction had been unusual, it was understandable, and he had no doubt that it was due to her embarrassment at feeling traumatised from her recent ordeal. As he arrived at this conclusion, he found himself wondering whether the time they shared together had aggravated that trauma, and caused the already existent confusion and pain she was experiencing to heighten to indescribable lengths, culminating in her inability to cope with either situation. Once more, pangs of guilt at his perceived miss-treatment or inconsiderateness towards her returned to him in full force, and he found himself looking at the closed doors before him with great sadness. The closed dark wooden doors reminded him of Watson herself, refusing permit entry into her fears or anxieties, locking them away with herself in an attempt to protect others from them. And although he had assured her he would not make her feel obligated to discuss anything she did not feel ready to, as he stared at those tall and foreboding doors before him, he found himself picturing the broken figure of his partner as she lay motionless and bleeding in the wine cellar.

As the images of Joan's broken body returned to him, Sherlock found himself imagining how she would be now, behind those doors. Would she be traumatised once more? Berating herself or her emotions? Struggling with the aftermath of the events of that day? Whatever she was going through behind those doors, and although he would completely respect her privacy, Sherlock wished to let her know that she was not alone. He fully intended to keep his word.

With that thought, Sherlock pressed his hands to his knees and stood up tall, walking briskly across the room and towards the closed doors. He stood before them for a moment, as if fearful that they would not open at all, refusing him entry and forcing Joan to suffer alone. _She is not alone_, Sherlock thought, as he slowly placed his hand an inch away from the wood, which he rapped on lightly with his knuckles. After a few moments of no response, with the only sound breaking the silence being the hot running water from the shower, Sherlock moved his hand down the door and towards the handle, which he gripped tightly with nervous hands, before turning it instantly and stepping inside.


	18. In Triumph

A/N: Hi everyone. Thank you for reading the last few chapters, I hope you've enjoyed them. As always, any issues/concerns/OOCness/advice is greatly appreciated, so please let me know your thoughts J

Dear Ronda: Thank you so much for your review, it was incredibly kind and really made me smile. I am not a professional writer, but thank you for the compliment. I have written five or six other stories, which are viewable from my profile page, but they are quite amateur (they were the first fanfics I have written, so proceed with caution! J) I hope I have improved with time and practice, and this current story is one which I am feeling content with at the moment, so I am glad you are enjoying it. Again, thank you for your kind words, and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

Thank you everyone, and I hope you all enjoy the latest instalment!

HQ21

The images of Leo's face, the memory of his hands upon her and his breath by her cheek caused Joan to tremble as she sat on the couch. Despite Sherlock's words of kindness and assurance, the memories of her attack overwhelmed her, and each time she found herself remembering Leo's hands upon her, she found herself having a small flash-back of the time she spent with Sherlock. The gentleness and tenderness of his touches, kisses and embraces, which still caused her body to quiver expectantly at the recollection. But now, as she felt his hand in hers and heard the kind words coming from his gentle mouth, the grainy image of Leo appeared at the forefront of her mind, as if he were corrupting the time she had spent with Sherlock. As she considered this, the memories and feelings relating to her recent attack, the memories she had tried to suppress, returned with full force, striking her with an almost physical blow. With each snapshot of memory of her attack, Joan found the memories of her time with Sherlock, and the safety and adoration associated with it, begin to disappear further and further from her. Not only did this torment her because she wished to keep the memories fresh and alive, but the cruelty and pain they were replaced with were too simply too much for her, and she found herself feeling incredibly overwhelmed, and unclean.

"I have to shower" Joan stated quickly, removing her hand from Sherlock's and pushing herself up from the couch, before heading directly to her bedroom and closing the doors behind her. She leaned against the closed doors for a moment, allowing herself a short time to compose herself, before opening her eyes and heading straight for the bathroom, removing her clothes as she walked.

Joan closed the bathroom door behind her, turning on the shower and then removing the rest of her clothing, kicking it beneath the sink and she reached for a towel, which she wrapped across herself, as the coldness of the room swept over her trembling body. As the water began to become much warmer, causing steam to become heavy in the air, Joan turned towards the mirror and stared at her reflection in the mirror for a moment. As she took in the tiredness of her eyes and the darkness of the bruising which was appearing around her eye, her attention was drawn to the aching on her side. She lowered her head and dropped the towel slightly, revealing the dark bruising which appeared on her left side. Joan swallowed as she ran her cold fingers over the bruising, which appeared to have purpled considerably since she last inspected it. She was not in any great degree of discomfort, and did not believe herself to be seriously injured. It was as if the bruising was there simply to remind her of the battle she fought in the room several floors beneath her feet. The battle she fought and won. As Joan turned back towards the sink and reached for the light switch above the mirror in order to inspect her eye more closely, she knocked over a glass containing her toothbrush and toothpaste, causing it to crash and break in the wicker bin beside the sink.

Sherlock stood outside the bedroom doors for a few moments, uncertain on the best way to enter, or whether he should even enter at all. But it took less than three seconds for him to convince himself that entering the room and talking to his partner was indeed the best course of action. Sherlock reached for the handle, gripping it firmly and allowing his fingers to linger upon it for a moment, before slowly turning it and pushing the door open, closing it behind him.

The room was still quite dim, due to the fact that Watson had not opened the curtains yet. But the cream curtains appeared to have been slightly disturbed, and a small parting between them allowed a long thin strobe of light from a lamp outside to shine into the room. Sherlock stood still for a moment, casting his glance curiously around the room. The bed was unmade and there were several items of clothing on the floor, some of them his, which were the only physical remnants of the time they had shared together just a few hours before. Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift from the bed to the clothes as he slowly made his way across the room, and found himself feeling slightly more confident and assured as he took in his surroundings. It was proof, unarguable proof, that the time that they had shared together had actually happened. It was true, it was real and, from the conversation he had with Watson just a few minutes before, it appeared that they both agreed it was right. Sherlock exhaled a small sigh as he silently crossed the room and reached the doors, the rhythmic sound of water spraying from the shower providing a steady beat which anchored his thoughts.

Sherlock stood outside the closed bathroom door for a moment, his arms tight by his side and his head slightly inclined, as he found himself beginning to question whether his current presence in Watson's room would be an unwelcome intrusion. Not that he often questioned the morality of entering her bedroom unannounced. Even when he did so when she lived at the brownstone, although it could be objectively classified as an 'intrusion', it was never an unwelcome one. But after what Watson had been through, and after the time they had spent together in that very room, Sherlock found himself questioning his conduct. Was he going too far? Before he could come to any conclusion as to this predicament, the sound of smashing glass from inside the bathroom drew him from his thoughts and caused him to act immediately. Without thought, Sherlock placed his hand on the handle of the door, pushing it down and opening it wide, stepping into the warm and steamy room, calling her name as he did so.

The sound of her voice being called and the door swinging open startled Joan, who had been lost in her thoughts after causing the glass to smash in the bin. She gasped, turning towards him and pulling her towel closer to her, which she almost dropped completely in the confusion.

"Sherlock" she breathed, her eyes wide and searching his face with interest and confusion. Sherlock was standing still, his arms to his sides and his head low, his eyes fixed upon her left side. Joan squinted in confusion, before lowering her eyes and following his line of sight. As soon looked down at her left side, she found that her towel had fallen slightly to reveal the deep purple bruising, which Sherlock was staring at, his eyes and body unmoving, his breathing even and his voice silent. Joan's eyes flickered from her side to Sherlock's face once more, before she adjusted the towel around herself to cover her injuries completely, and took a silent step towards Sherlock, whose eyes rose quickly as she did so.

"It doesn't hurt" she stated reassuringly, indicating to the bruising by placing her palm upon her side. She was being honest, it was causing her no pain, only some mild discomfort. But she knew that pretending that she was suffering no effects from the bruising at all would not satisfy Sherlock, and would probably make him even more worried. "It aches a bit but the painkillers are taking the edge off" she continued, sounding softer and more alert as she addressed him. "I'd almost forgotten about it til I came to shower" she finished, lifting her right hand and indicating towards the shower, before allowing it to fall back to her side.

Sherlock's statuesque stillness was broken for a moment, as he nodded once in response to her statements, which Joan was certain he believed. He then moved forwards slowly, until she could feel the tips of his shoes lightly graze her bare feet. Joan's breath hitched in her throat as Sherlock slowly tilted his head to the side, placed his hand tentatively upon the side of the towel, and dipped his fingers between the top of the towel and her skin. Joan assented, moving her hand out of the way and allowing Sherlock to slowly lower the towel, adjusting it so it covered her chest, stomach and pelvis, and just revealed her entire left side and thigh. The hot water continued to beat down from the shower, with condensation covering the mirror and causing the consulting detectives to be covered in a thin layer of warm liquid. Their breathing patterns became deeper and huskier, due to a combination of the heat of the enclosed room and their physical proximity, as Sherlock took a further step towards Joan so that their chests were almost touching. He drew his cool hand lightly down her bruised side in a slow and tentative manner, to ensure that he was not hurting her. But after a couple moments of gentle exploration and soothing touches, Joan's breathing patterns and constant stillness assured him that he was causing her no pain or distress. In fact, he appeared to be causing the opposite, as she was leaning into his touch. After a few moments, the two fingers which stroked Joan's bruises in a nervous yet comforting manner became three, then four, then a complete hand. Joan closed her eyes and shivered slightly as she felt Sherlock's free hand touch her hip, causing her to lean closer to him, her body pressed to his, causing his grip on her hip to increase slightly. As Joan slowly leaned forward and placed her forehead on his chest, the intimate yet unspecified nature of the moment startled her back to reality, and she leaned back quickly and without warning.

"You shouldn't be in here" she mumbled solemnly, watching as Sherlock's wide and gentle eyes met hers, holding her gaze for a moment, before he drew his hand lightly down her bruised side, before removing his hands completely from her. "It's not that I don't-"

"It's quite alright, Watson" Sherlock replied gently, his kind and calm eyes meeting her nervous ones. "I apologise for being forward. I simply wished to make sure you were alright."

"I understand" she responded, her voice barely a whisper, as she smiled through the steam of the increasingly warmer room. "And I'm grateful, really" she continued, watching as Sherlock stood calmly and attentively before her, his eyes focusing intently upon her. "I just think that we should exercise some caution, restraint, for the time being."

Sherlock watched Joan carefully as she spoke, nodding in agreement at her words. "Of course, Watson, if that is what you wish" he responded earnestly. "Again, please forgive the intrusion" he requested, earning a small nod from Joan in return.

"There was no intrusion" she responded automatically, the words leaving her mouth before she had time to process them. "And you've seen me wearing much less than a towel before, so…" she added, laughing lightly in an attempt to diffuse any tension that currently existed between them. But after a couple moments of thought, she realised that there was none. Sherlock Holmes standing before her, partially covered by a towel in a steamy shower room, did not cause her any unease or tension whatsoever. If anything, she felt more calm and relaxed than she had done when she was in there alone preparing for her shower. She sighed at this thought, subconsciously loosening her grip on the towel, as she looked towards Sherlock, whose voice attracted her attention.

"Before I leave, I would just like to ensure that you are-" he began, pausing for a moment as Joan looked up at him with wide and attentive eyes. "That you are quite alright" he finished, his voice becoming lower and brimming with compassion. "Not just in a physical sense, of course. From the time we shared together earlier this afternoon, I could tell that you did not appear suffering from any physical pain-"

"Are you already deducing things about me from when we slept together?" Joan asked, her voice gentle as she smiled slightly, blushing as levity entered her tone. "And here I thought you were being the perfect gentleman."

"I would never attempt to feign perfection, Watson" he returned in a calm and gentle tone, appreciating her attempt at relieving his nervousness at the subject he was broaching with her. "Although I hope that you understand that, despite your knowledge of my past relationships with women who frequented the brownstone, I never treated them poorly or in a dishonourable manner. I had, and still maintain, the highest respect for them. But you, you are not the same, Watson" he added hurriedly, watching as Joan's eye brows rose slightly in amusement at the comparison. "I do not view what happened between us as being the same as what happened between me and those other women" he stated, gesturing nervously with his hand as he spoke.

"Sherlock-" Joan smiled slightly, taking a step towards him.

"-with those women, our encounters were purely sexual, in an attempt to fulfil the needs of my body-"

"Sherlock, stop-" she continued gently, reaching out a hand to still his own, which was gesturing hastily as he attempted to remedy his previous statement.

"-but what happened between us, the time we spent together" he continued, watching as Joan's slightly open mouth closed as he continued to speak, the subject matter moving on from comparing Watson to a lady of the night, "was…" he began, breaking off as he met her eyes through the steamy bathroom, the heat of which was causing him to feel slightly dizzy. "It was transcendent of every other encounter I have had. And that is not because of a physical or physiological aspect of the time we spent together" he stated, his hand beginning to move in Joan's once more as he attempted to gesture in agitation. "It was because it meant something, Watson" he stated, watching as Joan blinked once and then watched him with wide, warm eyes. "It meant more than every liaison or connection, emotional or romantic, that I have experienced during my lifetime" he stated, taking a tentative step closer to Joan, who did not move back in response. "And I… I wanted you to know that" he stated gently, before leaning back slightly and removing his hand from hers, gesturing with them both as he continued to speak. "I… I felt you deserved to know that, Watson. I wished you to know that I did not view the time we spent together this afternoon as devoid of meaning or simply satisfying a growing physical need which we both shared. It meant infinitely more" he stated, nodding as he leaned back on his heels. A few moments of silence passed between them, with all words and thoughts escaping Joan entirely, as Sherlock continued to watch her with a sense of apprehensive expectation. "Now, after everything you have been through today, I realise that you a probably feeling torn between your feelings on that issue and the events downstairs" he stated, unable to bring himself to use words directly related to the brutality she had suffered. "And whilst I understand that there is little I am able to say that will assist you with coping with what you went through down there, I wished to clarify some things relating to the time we spent together, in order to lighten the burden, so to speak" he stated, inwardly chastising himself at the use of the word burden.

"I understand" she returned simply, her gentle voice brimming with warmth. Sherlock turned his attention towards her, his mind granting him a temporary reprieve from his self-condemnation. "And you are helping me, you have helped me" she stated quickly, offering him a warm smile as she spoke. "It's going to be fine" she stated, the conviction in her tone almost convincing Sherlock that her words were gospel, if he believed in such. Joan watched him silently for a few moments, and was surprised to find herself feeling slightly nervous. Not because of him or the memory, but because of _them_. The physical proximity of their bodies, his honesty and his candour, and the unbearable heat in the room, was causing her to quickly feel herself losing control.

"Right" Sherlock returned, nodding slightly at Joan, who was drawn instantly from her thoughts. "Yes, of course" he continued, shifting slightly on the spot. Joan observed the thin layer of sweat across Sherlock's face, and the slightly damp and limp hair at the front of his head which, also affected by the heat, had fallen over his forehead in complete surrender. As her eyes fell to his, and noticed the wideness of his pupils, the drumming of his fingers against his thigh, and the rapid rising and falling of his chest, she found herself wondering whether he was feeling the same way too. _It's probably just the heat_, she reasoned, turning to the mirror then the shower, and becoming suddenly aware of just how steamy the room was.

"It's like a sauna in here" Joan stated, turning from the shower and back to Sherlock.

"Quite" Sherlock returned, the low and husky tone his voice had adopted sounding very familiar to Joan, as she felt her whole body tingle. "Would you like me to leave?" he asked kindly. Joan found herself relaxing slightly at his voice. There was no subtle hints or hidden agenda to his request. He was offering to leave, and she had no doubt that if she responded 'yes, please, I won't be long', he would have done so, instantly and without question. She would have enjoyed her shower in peace, her body and mind slightly more relaxed that one of the issues she had been concerned about was nearing resolution. But as she looked at him before her, his torn shirt saturated with the humid air and sticking against his taut torso, his limp hair falling over his forehead, his eyes wide and uncertain, she found herself unable to give that answer. In fact, she struggled to formulate any answer at all into a coherent sentence.

"No" she breathed eventually, her voice low and gentle through the heat of the room and the heightened sexual tension which had been growing between them. She watched as Sherlock's eyes rose slightly to meet her gaze, and he tilted his head to the side slightly to observe her, as if doubting that the word he heard escape her lips, and its significance, were real. "I don't want you to leave" she returned, her voice still low and slightly nervous, as if uncertain that she had read him correctly. "But I don't want you to feel obligated to stay" she continued, standing perfectly still and unmoving as she spoke, her eyes not leaving his. Sherlock watched her for a moment, his eyes wide and unblinking, as he considered her words carefully. They both knew that she had not just meant him staying in the room, or even in her company. It was a much broader statement than that.

"I do not feel obligated, Watson" Sherlock stated, shaking his head slightly as he took another step towards her. Joan felt his chest brush hers slightly, causing her eyes to briefly fall to his damp shirt and defined features, before rising once more to his eyes.

"What do you feel?" she asked in a low voice, causing Sherlock to blink once and turn his head slightly to the side as he considered her question.

"Transcendent" he returned simply, reusing the word he had used before. He found describing his emotions difficult in most circumstances, but even more so at that precise moment. He felt that that word best encapsulated exactly how he felt, everything he experienced when he was with Joan Watson. "And humbled" he added, his eyes moving across her face as he spoke.

During the past few moments, Joan's hair had also been affected by the humidity in the room, which was beginning to overwhelm them both. As a result of this, her glossy locks had become damp, and some of her hair was clinging to her cheek. Sherlock moved his right hand up slowly, pausing in mid-air, before moving forward and drawing the hair from her cheek. He felt Joan quiver at the minimal contact they shared, and found himself exhilarated by her reaction. His breathing increased and his pupils dilated further, as his fingertips drew lightly down Joan's face, remaining there for a moment, as she reached up her own hand and held his firmly against her cheek.

"And what about you?" Sherlock asked gently, his voice low and husky. He felt Joan move her cheek against the palm of his hand as she looked up towards him, confusion etched upon her features, as her wide and alert eyes darted across his face. "How do you feel?"

"Transcendent" she breathed, watching as Sherlock's eyes drifted from her eyes to her mouth, and a small smile played on his lips. Usually, repeating words was his tactic, not hers. But it was one he was content that she had adopted. "And humbled" she added, her voice warm and light.

"I see" Sherlock breathed in return, his face inches from hers. Their eyes met for a moment, before Sherlock's attention befell the bruising which was appearing around her eye. He leaned forward instinctively, planting a gentle kiss upon the bruised area. He felt her fluttering eyelashes against his soft lips, causing his breathing to increase slightly, as his free hand returned to Joan's hip, travelling across her body to her lower back, and drawing her closer to him. Joan responded immediately, pressing her body to his and planting her left palm upon his chest.

"Your shirt is ruined" she stated lightly, taking in the damp material and torn fabric.

"Your doing, if I recall" Sherlock returned, his lips brushing her forehead as he spoke. Joan inhaled audibly, closing her eyes for a moment as she ran her fingers tentatively down the centre of his shirt.

"Hmm" she responded, breathing against him as her fingers reached the bottom of his shirt, ran back up the centre, and stroked the two remaining buttons on her way back up to his chest. She could feel the moisture from the shower and the heat from his body burning through the material of his shirt and onto her hand. "It seems like I'm not the only one in need of a shower" she stated calmly.

"It would appear not" he returned, his hand remaining still upon her hip. Joan exhaled lightly in response, tilting her head upwards to face Sherlock, whose nose grazed against her own as their eyes met, desire burning through the small distance between them.

"You aren't dressed for a shower" Joan returned, her fingers running down the centre of Sherlock's shirt, her eyes not leaving his as she spoke.

"Undressed would be a more accurate term" he responded, his eyes wide and his voice low and husky. "And technically neither are you" he returned, running his hand lightly across her lower back, which was covered by the thick white towel.

"No?" she asked breathlessly, tilting her head up slightly more, so that their noses met and their lips almost grazed.

"No" he returned, his voice low and barely audible, as he applied more pressure to her lower back and drew her closer to him, causing Joan's body to be pressed against his as their lips met. He kissed her gently at first, but after a few moments the resolve and composure they had both been attempting to maintain for the past few minutes dissolved completely, and the kiss quickly became hungry and passionate.

Sherlock's hands ran up Joan's back and towards her neck as he pulled her deeper into the kiss, her body moving against his as she sighed into him. Through this contact, Joan had lost her grip on her towel, which fell slowly down her side, before landing in a crumpled heap upon the floor. The feeling of Joan's bare skin beneath his fingertips caused Sherlock to open his eyes and break the kiss for a moment, lowering his gaze to the ground and discovering what had happened. Her skin felt smooth and supple beneath his fingers, and his hands continued to explore her back for a few moments, drawing her closer to him as his lips recaptured hers.

Joan continued to kiss Sherlock for a few moments, her hand moving slowly up his chest, before pausing in the centre of his shirt and pulling at it once more, causing the two remaining buttons which were securing the fabric across him to fall to the tiled floor with two echoing pings. Sherlock groaned against Joan as she spread her hands across his chest, pushing the material aside so it fell across his shoulders and onto the ground along with his suit jacket (which, considering the heat in the room, she was amazed had lasted so long). Sherlock's hands trembled slightly as he pulled her closer to him, the contact of her chest against his causing them both to exhale shakily and long for further contact. A few moments later, Joan undid Sherlock's belt once more, and his trousers fell to the ground. He edged forwards slightly, shaking his feet free from the reluctant material, causing Joan to take several steps backwards, until she found herself pressed up against the transparent glass panel of the shower, as the hot water beat rapidly against it.

"Shower" Sherlock mumbled into her mouth, before his hands ran up her back and drew her closer to him, recapturing her lips with a kiss.

"Mmm" Joan mumbled in assent, gasping as she felt his hands beneath her, lifting her a few inches as she backed herself into the shower cubicle. The hot water from the shower beat rhythmically against her skin which, regardless of the heat from the liquid upon her, felt as though it were ablaze. Joan's back was pressed against the white tiles of the shower which, by some miracle, had managed to remain relatively cool. Sherlock entered the shower just a moment after she did, taking a step towards her and sliding the door closed behind him. Something about this gesture made Joan smile, and she felt her entire body relax as Sherlock approached her, the hot water drenching them both and causing their already damp hair to become soaked. Sherlock placed his hands on her cheeks, leaned down, and kissed her passionately. Joan felt herself weaken at the contact, as her whole body quivered with anticipation. Sherlock felt her tremble in his grasp, her body lowering slightly as the kiss deepened and became more sensual.

After a few minutes of kissing as the water beat down upon them, Sherlock felt Joan tremble once more beneath him, and she rose her hands up his back, gripping his shoulders to prevent herself from falling. Sherlock reacted immediately, placing his hands beneath her and holding her to him, her legs wrapped around his waist and her hands upon his shoulders, as he pressed her against the wall. Joan's eyes opened and she broke the kiss as she felt the cool tiles against her back, and the water pounded against her uninjured side instead of directly upon her. Her wide eyes met Sherlock's, which were gazing at her through the haze of water and mist, and looking for permission to continue. Joan's eyes lowered slightly before rising to meet his, as she used her legs to pull him closer to her, his body trembling against hers as their bodies pressed tightly together. Joan closed her eyes and resumed kissing Sherlock, who groaned against her as their bodies joined once more. Joan gasped, breaking the kiss and breathing heavily against his cheek, before tightening her legs around him and kissing him once more, as the water continued to beat down upon them both. She felt Sherlock's hand run up her back and towards her neck, supporting her against the wall with his arm, as they continued to make love beneath the hot shower. The contrast of the cool tiles and the hot shower made Joan's muscles relax completely, and she wrapped her legs and arms tightly around Sherlock as he held her securely to the wall, supporting them both with all his strength. Joan's lips parted slightly, and she drew her lips reluctantly from his, as a feeling of breathless exhilaration struck her. She trailed kisses along his mouth, face and neck, before burying her head into his shoulder and breathing raggedly against him, closing her eyes and moaning as she dug her nails into his soft, wet skin.

After a few minutes, the heat from the shower caused the glass shielding Sherlock and Joan to become completely steamed over, providing complete privacy to the entwined lovers.


	19. In Failure

A/N: Hi everyone. Thank you for reading/reviewing the last chapter, I hope you enjoyed it. This story will be over by Chapter 25, so it's almost complete.

Ronda: Thank you again for your kind words. I also struggle with writing physically intimate scenes between Sherlock and Joan, because the nature of their relationship makes it seem almost OOC by default to write such passages! What you wrote was strangely close to what I was thinking as I penned the chapter, and your words of reassurance really meant a lot, so thank you again. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

I hope you all enjoy this latest instalment. The next chapter will be up in the next couple of days.

Thanks again,

HQ21

Sherlock and Joan remained together in the shower for just under twenty minutes, continuing to make love as the hot water cascaded across their bodies. The combination of physical exertion and heat from the shower caused them both to feel tired and dizzy, their limbs seeming heavy and their eyes shutting defiantly. Sherlock's legs were trembling due to exertion and the fact he was supporting Joan's entire body with his own. As he felt her limbs relax in his grasp, he leaned forward slightly, groaning as he pressed her further against the cool tiles, supporting her lower back with one hand and entangling the other in her dark hair, drawing her closer to him. Despite her weary and almost sedate state, Joan sensed the tiredness of her partner, who was attempting to subdue his deep breathing.

"Sherlock" she mumbled, removing her head from his neck and placing a hand across his forehead. His whole body was trembling and he seemed exhausted, but he was using all the strength he could muster to continue to physically support her. Joan remained still for a few moments, her eyes wandering over his taut body, before reaching across and turning off the shower. The water slowed then stilled within a few moments, causing Sherlock to lift his face tiredly and look wearily into her eyes. "You okay?" she asked, placing her right hand on his shoulder, and tentatively stroking him with her fingertips. Sherlock's hair was dark due to being completely soaked, and his eyes were wide and alert as he looked up at her, drops of water drifting slowly down his face.

"Yes" he breathed, his eyes wandering across her face quickly, observing the pink glow of her flushed cheeks. "You?"

"Yes" she returned instantly, her legs relaxing around him, so that her right foot stroked the top of his calf. They remained silent and motionless for several moments, watching as the warm water slowly trickled down their bodies and into the shower, which was becoming less steamy but notably cooler by the second.

"You're cold" Sherlock observed, as goose-bumps began to appear across Joan's arms and chest, causing the fine hair on her body to stand on end. He moved back slightly, causing Joan's legs to fall from his sides as he eased her into a standing position. As soon as her feet touched the ground she felt certain she would fall, but Sherlock's warm hands on her waist and attentive gaze upon her face ensured she would not. She hummed in response, her hands drifting from his arms to his chest.

"I'm fine" she assured him, watching as the steam from the glass door began to slowly disappear, revealing the towels and remnants of torn clothing upon the tiled floor. "You're the one with no immediately available" she quipped.

"Yes, well" he began, his voice low and deep. "Clothes are not the sole way of maintaining a healthy and regular body temperature" he continued.

"No?" she asked, her voice low and slightly husky.

"No" he responded instantly, tilting his head to the side slightly as he observed her.

"Then what would you suggest?" Joan asked, surprised at the confidence of her manner as she flirted with Sherlock following their second passionate encounter of the day. The reality of their new levels of intimacy had not yet fully sunk in, yet she found herself completely and inexplicably caught up in the moment, and savouring it completely, not knowing how long it would last.

"Sharing body heat is a scientifically proven and widely-practiced method of maintaining one's necessary core physical temperature" he began, the intelligent explanatory tone he was using seeming incredibly out of place given his current state. "It has other benefits too."

"Such as?" Joan asked, feigning ignorance as she glanced serenely up at her partner. Sherlock's lips played into a brief nervous smile which appeared and vanished so quickly that Joan found herself questioning whether it had ever existed at all. Sherlock ran his eyes across Joan's face, arms and neckline, observing how she appeared to be becoming colder by the second. He placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her lower back, taking a tentative step closer to her as their bodies touched, in his simple yet considerate attempt to keep her warm. He noted how the purple of her bruise appeared to deepen in the sudden coolness of the cubicle.

"Would you like to find out?" he asked gently, his voice low and polite, if slightly nervous. Even in their current condition, and due to the nature of what he was suggesting, Joan was sure she saw the glint of excitement and invigoration which often appeared in his eyes when he was about to attempt a new experiment. She may have been slightly insulted if she hadn't been so amused. Joan relaxed under his gaze, her eyes shining through her dripping face and wet hair, as her lips played into a small smile.

"Yes" she returned simply, reaching her hand past him and opening the door to the cubicle, and watching in amusement as the cold air from the bathroom flooded into the small space they were sharing, causing Sherlock to arch his back and turn quickly on the spot. Joan smiled broadly at the sight, as Sherlock turned towards her with a slightly surprised look upon his face.

Sherlock turned on the spot and reached for the towel which was on the floor, holding it in front of him before draping it over Joan's shoulders and wrapping her securely with it, with all the care and consideration he was capable of displaying. Joan looked up at him from the towel, watching as he took a step closer to her and carefully removed her hair from the back of the towel, her heart rate and breathing increasing slightly due to their current closeness. She felt his hand drift down her arms and towards her back, the towel acting as a barrier between their skin. Before she could react, Sherlock turned and stepped out of the shower, wrapping the other towel across his hips, and returning to the door of the cubicle, offering Joan his hand. She paused for a moment, her eyes falling to his hand, then travelling back to his eyes as she accepted his offer and secured her towel closely to her with her free hand, stepping out of the shower before being guided through the bedroom. As they reached the middle of the dim room, which revealed their mingled clothes and unmade bed, Sherlock turned back towards her and spoke in a low, even tone.

"I'm having the strangest sense of déjà vu" he mumbled, as he slowly guided her towards the bed. Joan glanced up at him curiously, half chidingly and half in jest, as she followed him willingly to the bed and paused before it. She felt very unlike herself, and was musing over just how different Sherlock too seemed, yet he was completely the same. The conundrum was not explored further by Joan, however, as she found her ability to concentrate inhibited by the toned and muscular man standing before her, whose wide and considerate eyes were watching her with care and concern. He seemed nervous, apprehensive even. Perhaps the idea of sharing a bed with her in a non-sexual context would prove too intimate for him. More intimate, maybe, than the times they had spent together physically. Joan did not want him to be uncomfortable, or feel obligated to act differently around her, regardless of what happened between them. She'd spent the past three years trying to make him realise that it was perfectly fine for him to be himself, and she was dedicated to ensuring he remembered that. But more than that, she wanted him to believe it.

"You don't have to spend the night with me if you don't want to" she stated gently, watching as Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly in confusion at her statement. "Or if you want to spend some time away from me to… to think, to rest. It's fine, Sherlock, really" she continued, watching as his eyes travelled curiously across her face. "You don't owe me anything." Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before lowering his head slightly and taking a step closer to her. He rose his eyes to meet hers, and watched her with a nervous and concerned gaze.

"I owe you a great deal, Watson" he stated solemnly and with conviction. "And I would very much like to spend the night with you, if you are amenable to the idea, and if you are comfortable with it" he stated, speaking the last words hurriedly. "But I do not wish you to feel obligated to ask me to stay." Joan felt herself relax almost completely as she processed his words.

"I don't" she replied simply, taking a step closer to him. "Would you like to stay?" she asked in a low and gentle voice, her eyes not leaving his as she spoke. Sherlock exhaled, his chest rising slightly as he did so, before leaning forward and placing a gentle kiss upon her lips.

"I would" he whispered, his breath hot against her slightly parted lips. "Very much."

"Alright" Joan breathed back, her eyes low and her vision hazy as she spoke. She lowered her head slightly, glancing at Sherlock's chest and the towel across his hips, before looking back up to his face. "We need to dry off first" she mumbled. Sherlock nodded in agreement, and they used their towels to dry themselves carefully and completely, the silence in the room broken only by the sound of the soft material against their bare skin. After a few minutes Joan walked over towards the bed and pushed the duvet aside, climbing inside and covering her cool body with the soft, warm material. A few moments later Sherlock joined her, his body beside hers beneath the covers, their heads on adjacent pillows, allowing them to watch each other with bright and sparkling eyes through the darkness. They were silent for several minutes, allowing themselves a short period of time to adjust to their new surroundings and their new state, before a slight change in Joan's breathing pattern informed Sherlock that she was about to speak.

"We're going to have to talk about this" she stated gently, watching as Sherlock's large eyes watched her patiently through the darkness. "You know?" she added.

"I do" he breathed, his voice low and gentle. "And I agree" he stated, moving his hand across the mattress and placing it tentatively over her own. "But not tonight" he stated gently, as Joan adjusted her hand in his and entwined their fingers.

"No" she responded, her eye-lids feeling heavy, as she battled to stay awake. "No, not tonight" she murmured, her eyes closing firmly as she leaned into the pillow. Sherlock was silent for a few moments, watching as Joan fell into a gentle sleep-induced sleeping pattern, as her weary body finally allowed her to rest. Until that moment he had not realised the extent of his own tiredness, which began to consume him as he observed the peaceful look of complete contentment and serenity upon Joan's face. Sherlock blinked languidly a couple of times, before allowing himself to fall asleep beside her, their bodies warm, relaxed and completely free from existence outside the four walls that protected them.

For the next seven hours Sherlock and Joan slept without interruption, internal or external. Their weary bodies were encased in the thick sheets which kept them warm and together, as their hands remained joined beneath the blankets. But as dawn broke, Sherlock found himself slowly returning to consciousness, his tired body now completely recharged. The thin rays of sunlight which shone through the windows warmed his skin and caused him to open his eyes tiredly, his vision befalling the sleeping figure of Joan Watson, who did not appear to have moved at all. He blinked a couple of times as he watched her, feeling her warm fingers loosely holding his, as he quickly returned to full consciousness.

Sherlock spent several minutes laying still beside her, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the gentle opening of her lips, and the flaring of her nostrils as she slept. It was a sight he had witnessed many times before, but never quite so close. After a few moments of peaceful slumber Joan appeared to frown in her sleep, inclining her head and exhaling a murmured sigh, causing some strands of her still damp hair to fall across her face. Sherlock removed the strands with his free hand, brushing them across her cheek and behind her ear, as he continued to run his eyes analytically across her sleeping figure. But unlike all the other times Sherlock had watched Joan as she slept, their physical proximity and state of dress made him feel suddenly and without notice feel quite overwhelmed and nervous. He remembered the events of the day before, their playful words and actions as he led her back into the bedroom, the kind and patient look upon her face. As he looked at her sleeping form now, he found himself feeling worried that she would open her eyes, look at him in surprise, and find herself sobered by the morning light, and filled with regret. Sherlock felt his chest tighten and his breathing increase with the fear associated with this thought, and without another moment's thought he reluctantly removed his hand from hers, eased himself gently out of the bed and tucked the covers securely around her, before walking slowly from the room.

Sherlock felt instantly colder the moment he left the bed, whether due to the removal of the covers or the absence of his lover, he remained uncertain, but he considered the conundrum carefully as he made his way across the dimly-lit living area and into his den. Sherlock left the door open behind him as he selected some clean clothing from his suitcase, pulling it on quickly to shield himself from the cold. As the material of the shirt he was buttoning clung to his skin, he found himself remembering Joan's hands beneath his former shirt, tearing it from his body. Twice. Sherlock blinked, fastening the remaining buttons as a small nervous smile played on his lips. After dressing completely he walked into the next room, opening the curtains wide and heading over to the couch. Sherlock set up his laptop on the table before him, before reaching across the table and toward the ever-expanding habitat which he and Watson had constructed for their tough-shelled companion, who he picked up and placed on his lap.

"I fear we have been neglectful in our contact with you over the past couple of days, Clyde" Sherlock whispered, nodding as he spoke, and rubbing the space on Clyde's head with his forefinger in a manner which calmed the creature. "Perhaps I could rectify the error by enlisting your help in our casework which, for the same reasons, has been similarly neglected" he explained, opening up the footage from Dalton's room and reviewing it from the beginning, his wide eyes fixed on the screen before him.

Joan could feel the warmth from the morning light shining onto her bare back, which had become uncovered at some point in the past couple of hours. Her eyes remained closed as she slowly began to return to consciousness, her head leaning further into the soft pillow and pleading with her to rest, as her rapidly cooling body and developing thoughts attempted to rouse her. In the end, her body and mind won.

Joan opened her eyes and blinked tiredly, before pressing her hands to the mattress and pushing herself up so she was sitting on her side. Even before she opened her eyes she knew that Sherlock was not there. She did not recall him leaving, but sensed the absence of his presence, of his body, of him. Joan ran a hand through her hair and leaned down, rubbing her eyes tiredly as she searched for the clock on the bedside table, which informed her that it was half-past six in the morning. She knew from experience that this was several hours past Sherlock's usual rising hour, and had a fair idea of where he would be. Joan eased herself from the bed and stumbled tiredly through the room, selecting some loungewear and pulling it on, before brushing teeth and securing her hair in a ponytail. As she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror she was not surprised to find that the bruise beneath her eye had darkened considerably, and she appeared pale. Joan reached for her make-up bag and used concealer and foundation to cover the mark, which she managed to some degree. But the paleness and drawn appearance of her pallor concerned her, and she knew it would concern Sherlock, too. Joan applied mascara and a brown-pink shade of lipstick which gave her a brighter appearance, and she sighed contently at the result, before heading from the bathroom and through the bedroom.

As she reached the closed doors which led to the living area, she found her hand lingering above the handle, as the worry that had been building inside her since she woke threatened to overflow. She knew that she and Sherlock needed to talk about the night before (and the afternoon before that), but she found herself feeling increasingly nervous at the prospect, which unsettled her. She rarely felt nervous about talking to Sherlock, regardless of the topic. She always appreciated the candidness of their relationship, and the approachable nature of her partner (to her, at least). But this was different. What they needed to talking about was something so serious and so complex that she found herself afraid of the potential consequences of the conversation she knew needed to happen. But as she stood by the door and inhaled deeply, she found herself fearing that conversation more than any she had ever had. They had both been basking in the moments, adoring their encounters and cherishing each kiss, touch, display of affection, as they were both aware that, whilst they both agreed that they did not regret the time they shared together, the nature of their relationship may forbid such intimacies becoming a permanent fixture. Their time in the hotel was almost over, and Joan found herself wondering whether they would be leaving much more than two constructed identities at the door: but two true ones. Unable to deal with the uncertain pressure any longer, and knowing from the tapping sound of fingers on keys that her partner was in the next room, Joan pushed down the handle and walked confidently in the room, and found herself relieved that Sherlock's work since waking had meant that the inevitable conversation was, once again, temporarily postponed.

"Watson, you are awake" Sherlock proclaimed, turning his head to the side to look at her as his fingers stilled upon the keys for a moment. "I was considering sending Clyde in to rouse you in ten minutes or so."

"You were going to let me sleep straight through til seven?" Joan returned, finding herself slightly calmed by the normalness of his tone and absence of awkwardness between them. "I'm touched". Sherlock nodded in response as Joan walked towards the couch, and sat at the opposite end from him. They were about two feet apart, but the space was ample to allow each some room without feeling crowded. "What are you working on?" she asked, glancing towards the screen.

"Whilst you were slumbering I took the liberty of viewing the footage from Dalton's room, from the camera which Catherine so kindly installed" he stated, turning the laptop towards Watson and pausing the current scene, which showed a standing Dalton holding a phone to his ear. One hand was in his pocket and his head was inclined, but Joan could not mistake the arrogant and smug smile which was playing on his lips. The others were sat on the couch to the right, with the exception of Catherine, who was not present. "And whilst I established that the people in the room have appalling taste in both food and team sports" he stated, pronouncing the last two words with a hiss, "I believe I may have also uncovered the method Dalton intends to use to transport the women." Joan turned expectantly towards him, fixing her eyes on his as he paused.

"What is it?" she asked.

"During the scene before you, which is from two-forty this morning, Dalton made a very brief call to someone I presume to be an associate in the matter" Sherlock stated, his voice becoming low and fast-paced. "Very little of import was said, but the term 'maiden voyage' was used by Dalton in a lewd and infuriating context which I am loathe to fully inform you of-"

"I get it" Joan returned quickly, anger rising in her at the smirking figure on the screen before her. "So you think that as well as his attempt at sick humour, it was a… a reference to how the women are gonna be taken from New York to whatever destination he has in mind?"

"Quite" Sherlock returned, nodding as he closed the laptop, sensing the discomfort it was causing his partner. "It seems that Dalton is planning to transport them by ship rather than car, which makes our job of locating them slightly easier."

"Right, yeah" Joan responded. "We just need to look into which ships are leaving after seven o'clock tomorrow morning, and find out where they are departing from" she said, her voice trailing off slightly. "The women are unlikely to be transported in daylight" she added, feeling the light from the window warm her skin. "But they'll almost certainly be placed in a shipping container" she added, her heart tightening at the thought. "He will either move them there tonight or, or possibly last night, as we slept" she stated, recalling the calmness and tranquillity of her own slumber, which would be in stark contrast to what those poor women must be going through.

"It is possible that that was what the phone call was about, yes" Sherlock stated in a low and gentle voice. "I have already apprised Captain Gregson of this, and he is making the necessary arrangements" Sherlock stated, watching Joan closely as she nodded in response. "Our job for today is to both assist that search, and keep a close eye on Dalton and associates. Another meeting with Catherine would not be un-advantageous either, but we cannot risk compromising her cover" he stated, causing Joan's eyes to warm slightly at his consideration.

"Okay" she stated, thinking over the tasks they had before them. "We have twenty-four hours and counting" she added, watching as Sherlock looked up and met her gaze. "We can't fail them, Sherlock" she stated with conviction, and Sherlock nodded in understanding, knowing that she too was thinking of the conversation they had before them. A conversation which, for the time-being, had been put aside, and would be until the case was over.

"We won't" he replied, his wide eyes meeting hers, assuring her that he intended to carry both acts through. And she believed him.


	20. To Care

Sherlock and Joan spent the next hour and a half reviewing the footage, which provided them with very little additional information which would assist them in their work. It revealed that Dalton and his associates spent the entire night in the lounge area of Dalton's suite, talking about a variety of issues and glued to their phones and laptops (the latter of which Sherlock, despite almost thirty minutes of trying, was unable to view). By eight o'clock in the morning Sherlock and Joan had reviewed the entirety of the footage, which revealed that Dalton and his associates were joined by Catherine shortly before ten to eight in the morning, and they left the suite together.

"Breakfast started at eight, so it's possible that's where they are" Joan mumbled tiredly, leaning back against the couch, which welcomed her weary limbs. Despite having slept well and for a fair period of time, she felt exhausted and, oddly, rather hungry. Normally Joan would never eat breakfast, but ever since waking she had been conscious of the presence of hunger, which had continued to grow, and puzzle her immensely. The only time she ever ate in the mornings was after a particularly vigorous run, but on most occasions even that would not cause her to feel the slightest pang of hunger. As the topic of exercise swam in her mind, Joan found herself remembering the time she spent with Sherlock the day before, in the bed then the shower. She wondered if he was hungry too.

"I agree" Sherlock responded, closing the top of the laptop and pushing it towards the middle of the table, and causing Joan to turn towards him immediately as she abandoned her previous thoughts. "Today is their last day here, so surveillance of their actions and behaviour within the hotel is essential. Despite their arrogance, with Thomas's death and Leo's escape, they will undoubtedly be on their guard" he continued, turning towards her as he spoke.

"Yes" Joan agreed, meeting his eyes nervously as she battled to keep the memories she had just been reminded of at bay. "They headed downstairs just under ten minutes ago, we should probably get dressed" she stated, her eyes falling to her lap then back to his face as she spoke. Joan allowed her stare to linger upon him for a moment, as she noticed how his eyes ran across her face briefly in the analytical and concerned manner she recognised as his own, before he nodded simply in response.

"Yes" Sherlock responded, his voice slightly nervous and lower than he expected. He blinked and recovered himself quickly, standing from his seat in his usual poised and almost theatrical manner, causing Joan to look up instantly. "I'll get dressed in the den. Please, take your time" he stated, nodding once before walking briskly through the living area and towards the den, closing the door behind him.

Joan blinked once, her hands clasped loosely in her lap, before closing her eyes and exhaling deeply. Sherlock was acting as he often did when there was something he was trying to discuss, but felt certain that Joan would bring to his immediate attention. And usually he was completely correct. But on this particular occasion he was wrong. Half wrong, at least. It was an issue that needed to be addressed, but first another more pressing matter required their complete attention: recovering the kidnapped young women who were less than twenty-four hours away from the clutches of Dalton. Regardless of how important it was that they address the fact that they slept together (twice) and that their relationship was clearly changing, the lives of those fourteen young women mattered more, and Joan knew that neither she nor Sherlock could afford to be distracted from that fact. Besides, from the available evidence it seemed likely that the case would be resolved within the next day or so, and the safety of the women would allow Sherlock and Joan an opportunity to talk. Joan spent a moment considering how she viewed this moment with both eager anticipation and hope (mainly for the safe retrieval of the girls) and fear (the conversation). Before she could consider either any further, Joan pushed herself from the couch and headed to the bedroom, closing the doors firmly behind her as she readied herself for the morning ahead.

As soon as Sherlock had shut the doors to the den he found himself feeling increasingly agitated and uncertain, and he was not completely sure why. The progress being made in the case was causing his mind to race and his thoughts to develop and evolve rapidly, causing adrenaline to course through his veins. But at the same time, he found himself experiencing a strange medley of feelings which he was struggling to disentangle and identify. Uncertainty and confusion, certainly. But also apprehension. A deep, foreboding and almost overwhelming sense of apprehension, which he did not believe was solely linked to the case. Despite his uncertainty regarding the nature of his current emotional state, he had no doubts as to what it was in relation to. Like Joan, Sherlock also realised that a conversation regarding their sexual liaisons was unavoidable and essential, but that the current circumstances of their case meant that it would have to be postponed. These feelings had been developing since he first woke, and despite successfully drawing his attentions from them and onto the footage for several hours, they had returned in full force. He felt himself experience them once more as he had looked upon Joan's face just a few minutes ago. Her hesitance of speech, clear nervousness and visible unsettledness made him question whether she was having regrets about the time they spent together the day before. A time which, for them both, seemed to exist outside of existence, so to speak. They thought and acted as if nothing, no other person, place, case or duty existed. The sole aim they needed to pursue, the single desire they had to satisfy, was one which completely contradicted both their former relationship and current purpose at the hotel. As he considered this, he came to believe that it was both plausible and natural for Watson to regret the day before. And with this thought, the overwhelming sense of fear and apprehension returned to him once more. Sherlock dressed quickly, but spent a few minutes in a calming and reflective silence, before leaving the den and heading into the living area, where an immaculately-dressed and composed-looking Watson was waiting for him. Sherlock walked briskly through the living area, standing before her for a moment and offering her a smile and nod of acknowledgement, before drumming his fingers nervously on his thigh and walking directly to the door.

Joan watched for a moment as her clearly nervous and apprehensive partner made his way towards the doorway. It was almost as if he feared she would break under his gaze, or misunderstand him in some way, which could prompt a premature discussion of the time they shared together the night before. But as she considered Sherlock's nature, his actions the day before and his current state, she found herself questioning her previous fear that he regretted the time they spent together. The way he was speaking to her and the looks he had been giving her were clandestine and considerate, they were warm and full of concern. They were not angry or cold or even remorseful. As Joan considered this, she began to walk quickly towards Sherlock, her footsteps and mind working at equal speed, so that by the time she reached his side as he raised his hand to the door, she found herself quite certain that he did not regret the time they spent together the night before, nor did he bear any ill-feelings towards her for it. And as she saw his nervousness and uncertainty practically radiating from his body, she knew that she had to assure him that nor did she. Joan exhaled slowly at this thought, which despite her confidence was not definitive. Sensing her presence, which was closer to him than he had anticipated, Sherlock turned towards her slightly, but before he could look at her closely, he felt her hand upon his.

Joan had placed her hand tenderly on top of his right hand, which was reaching for the door. Sherlock could feel her warm fingers finding the spaces between his and hovering there for a moment, as memories of his hands upon her, and her hands upon him, filled both of their minds. But it was clear that causing him to remember such memories or resume the associated activities was not what Joan had intended, nor was she attempting to force her feelings upon him or start the conversation that they needed to have. Her gesture, gentle and chaste, was a reassurance. The ultimate reassurance, really, but also, the ultimate test. She was telling him that it was okay, whilst also asking him it as a question. And as Joan felt Sherlock's hand still beneath hers, as his body relaxed and his fingers entwined with hers, their enclosed hands falling in the space between them, he accepted her reassurance and answered her question. Joan too visibly relaxed, offering him a reassuring look as she reached for the door and opened it. Sherlock and Joan walked down the corridor and towards the elevator, enjoying a comfortable and reflective silence, as their hands remained entwined between them.

Sherlock and Joan remained silent in the elevator, their bodies a few inches apart but their hands clasped together. It was almost as if the utterance of a single word would irreparably damage the current moment, severing their romantic connection and leaving their relationship in an uncertain and limbo-like state. Their hands, joined in both unity and mutual reassurance, were binding them both to each other, and preventing them from entering limbo. But as the elevator pinged and the doors opened before them, they both found themselves sobered by their current task. Sherlock guided Joan by the hand into the restaurant, drawing out her chair and tucking her in, before walking around the table and sitting directly opposite her. Joan ran her fingers down the edge of her menu, drumming them lightly on the thick paper, before casting a cursory glance around the room. Despite breakfast having only just started, four tables were already occupied. One table was taken by some young newlyweds, one by a severe-looking gentleman in a dark suit, one by a trio of individuals Joan did not recognise, and on the final table were Dalton and his associates, as well as Catherine. Joan pretended to look at her menu as she watched Dalton's table, the man in question leaning across an associate to talk to Catherine, as the others ate in apparent silence. The sight and smell of the breakfast foods caused Joan to feel hungrier than before, but a pinging from in front of her drew her attention to Sherlock, who had plucked his phone from his breast pocket.

"It's from the Captain" Sherlock said simply, closing his menu and placing it to the side as he stared at his phone. "He has emailed me a list of potential ships" he stated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scrolled down what appeared to be a rather extensive list.

"How many are there?" Joan asked, her voice low and hesitant.

"Twelve ships, four-hundred containers" Sherlock responded, tilting his head to the side but not removing his eyes from the screen as he spoke. Joan closed her eyes and nodded for a moment as she considered the difficulty associated with narrowing down such a large number in such little time, with very few variables to assist them.

"Four hundred" she repeated in a low, whispered voice. Before either of them could speak further, a familiar looking waiter approached them, taking their breakfast orders quickly before departing. They each ordered a large breakfast and black coffee, their mutual hunger and need for caffeine both understandable and necessary. As soon as she was certain the waiter was too far from their table to hear their conversation, Joan continued to discuss the matter at hand. "The port itself is huge. How are we going to narrow down the twelve ships to one and then figure out which shipping container they're being held in, in less than twenty four hours?" she asked, the hopeless tone in her voice causing Sherlock to look up at her from his phone, which he placed on the table beside him.

"By employing the same logic and deductive reasoning that we engage with in each case we work" he replied in a gentle and reassuring manner, his warm eyes turning from hers for a moment as he picked up the phone and held it before him. "For instance" he began, his eyes returning to her face for a moment, before returning to the phone, which he was indicating to with a single hovering finger. "Out of the twelve ships the Captain has texted me the details for, five depart after ten o'clock in the morning, which we can rule out-"

"Can we?" Joan asked, Sherlock's lips parting slightly as he prepared himself to answer. "Why?"

"Because Dalton and his associates are leaving shortly after 7am" Sherlock responded in a low, simple voice. "The port is no more than fifteen minutes by car from our current location, and considering the increased police presence and the murder of one individual and the wilful absconding of another, Dalton is probably rather keen to leave as soon as possible. Nor will he wish to draw attention to himself or his actions. Now, a well-dressed man and his associates loitering around a harbour or port whilst conducting illicit business in the light of the morning is probably something that port security would notice, so-" he began, leaving the statement open for Joan to comment upon.

"- so he is not gonna leave at seven and hang around a harbour for two hours before the ship leaves" she responded, leaning back in her seat and adopting a calm and warm expression as their food and coffee were brought to them by two waiters, who she thanked as they left.

"Precisely" Sherlock returned. "He will need to meet with whoever is holding the girls for Leo, and a man as paranoid as he is will almost certainly want to view the girls before completing the agreement" Sherlock continued, his voice low and his tone hushed.

"Right" Joan agreed. "So we're down to seven" she stated, considering the number of ships.

"Four, actually" Sherlock returned, causing Joan to look up at him in surprise. "According to the inventories of the shipping containers, three of the ships' cargo includes a fairly considerable amount of either jewellery or gold. This means that additional security measures are likely, as is a potential police presence. No, he would not risk it. It would not do for a meeting or the transfer" he continued, taking a sip of his coffee as he handed Joan the phone. "So we are down to four."

"Or one" Joan breathed, relief flooding over her as she considered the information before her, and used her own phone to research her theory.

"Watson?" Sherlock asked, placing his coffee cup upon the table and watching her intently. Joan put her phone back on the table and turned Sherlock's toward him, leaning forward slightly as she began to speak.

"Look at the destination of _The Recessor_" she stated, selecting and magnifying the information.

"Colombia" Sherlock stated, the word echoing in his mind as he located it within his recent memory. He recalled the initial meeting between himself, Watson, Gregson and Bell in the Captain's office, in which the details of the case were outlined, as were the individuals involved. "Jennifer Mandrea, the associate of Dalton who is just two seats from him as we speak, is based in Colombia" he stated, watching as Joan nodded in return, sliding his phone to him across the table.

"The other three are going to Alaska, Denmark and Canada" she stated. "It's not impossible that the girls would be taken there, but given Mandrea's involvement and the fact that a brief look into her Interpol file shows that she is believed to keep the recently-kidnapped girls she acquires hidden away in Colombia for a few months before trading them, and given that this particular ship has a fairly small crew, it seems the most likely" she added, wrapping her hands around the hot mug before her as Sherlock considered her words. "Plus it leaves at twenty five-past eight tomorrow morning, which is consistent with them leaving here just after seven."

"I believe you are right" he stated.

"It's the most likely option given the history of those involved, but we can't be certain" she stated, as she found herself considering possible alternatives. "We can't risk their lives based on an educated guess" Joan added, glancing up at Sherlock, who was typing away on his phone.

"I quite agree" Sherlock returned, placing his phone back on the table. "Which is why I have given the Captain the details of the four ships we were able to narrow it down to, as well as our thoughts on the most likely candidate."

"Okay" Joan responded, nodding in agreement as she took a sip of her coffee. After placing the cup upon the table, she glanced up at Sherlock, who appeared to be considering whether to eat. "How many shipping containers will _The Recessor_ be transporting?"

"Fifty three" Sherlock responded, pushing his plate a few inches across the table, having apparently resigned himself against eating. As the delicious scent of her breakfast awoke her senses, Joan found herself absolved of her former hunger, which had been replaced by adrenaline and a desire to work on the matter at hand.

"And we don't know which one the girls are in" Joan stated in a low voice, placing her cutlery in the centre of her plate and looking up towards Sherlock. "We can't even be sure that they are in there at the moment."

"Quite so" Sherlock returned, taking another sip off his coffee as he glanced towards Dalton's table. Dalton was assisting Catherine from her chair and his associates were also removing themselves from the table. Sherlock watched as Dalton led his associates from the dining hall and towards the lobby, turning right and heading outside. Knowing that the police detail and undercover officers would follow them outside of the hotel, Sherlock turned his attentions back to his partner. "As we discussed previously, the girls were either taken there last night following the 2am phone call, or they will be taken there tonight" he stated, watching as Joan met his gaze and nodded in understanding. "If they were taken there last night the container will almost certainly be being guarded by a trusted associate of Dalton's. Possibly Leo's, depending on exactly how much of the deal has been arranged at this time" Sherlock stated.

"But if the girls aren't there now, they'll be taken there some time during the night" she stated. "But that's such a risk, isn't it?" she asked, causing Sherlock to turn towards her. "Taking them to the container just hours before the ship is due to leave?"

"No more so than leaving them in a container for over twenty-four hours, with one or two individuals to watch over them, who could easily be stopped and search by security" Sherlock returned. Joan tilted her head to the side and nodded in agreement.

"The port has constant security" she stated, running her finger down the side of her mug, and rubbing away a drop of coffee. "The longer the girls are there, the higher the chances are of them being discovered" she stated with conviction. Sherlock stared at her for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Even someone as arrogant as Dalton isn't likely to risk that, is he?" she asked. "Especially considering how Leo is now on the run, and is a person of interest to NYPD" she continued, surprised at the ease with which she was able to speak his name. "The police don't believe he has left the city, and so will be watching the ports during the day, as that's when the ships are scheduled to leave" she stated. "But at night…"

"Precisely" Sherlock returned. "There will be a limited police presence during the night. But all that confirms is our previous conviction that the girls were or will be transported after dark" he stated, watching as Joan shifted slightly in her seat. "What we do know, is that Dalton's associates will either be guarding the container now, or taking the girls to it in the early hours of the morning. Fortunately for us, our actions in either case must be the same" he stated decidedly, causing Joan to look up at him expectantly. "We must go there tonight and search the area whilst keeping an eye out for those in collusion with Dalton and his gang, and for the young women who have been taken" he began, watching as Joan considered the words and nodded in agreement. "Whilst Captain Gregson will undoubtedly enlist the assistance of the NYPD in such a plan, we will also be able to aid the search. From our time here and our review of the files on both Dalton and his associates and the missing girls, we have acquired an invaluable amount of knowledge which could aid in the safe return of these young women" he continued. "And I believe that you, like myself, are keen to see this through to its conclusion" he stated, the lowness of his tone attracting Joan's attention.

"We do" she stated, her fingers falling from the side of the coffee cup. "And we will." Sherlock nodded in response, standing from his seat as Joan did the same. Sherlock rested his hand upon Joan's lower back and guided her from the restaurant and to their room to discuss the arrangements for that evening, as their plates of untouched food grew cold upon the abandoned table.


	21. To Protect

A/N: Hey everyone, thanks for continuing to read/support the story, I hope you're still enjoying it! I hope this chapter is satisfactory, the next chapter will be uploaded in the next few days. I am not sure if I will write a sequel to this particular story, but I think I would like to write more stories with this particular type of characterization. If anyone has any requests or prompts I'll happily attempt them.

As always, any issues/criticism/advice is greatly received, so please let me know what you think.

Thanks,

HQ21

The day passed quickly for Sherlock and Joan, who spent over twelve hours in the safe confines of their suite, working tirelessly on a case they hoped would be resolved in less than twenty-four hours. During this time Sherlock and Joan exchanged information with the police regarding the ships leaving the port the following morning. Although Sherlock and Joan had narrowed down the possible ships to four, and were fairly certain they knew which one the women would be transported in, Gregson wished to exercise caution. Therefore, instead of pooling all his resources into the single ship, he began by looking into all twelve, with a particular focus on the four which Sherlock and Joan had narrowed it down to. After a few hours of surveying the inventory, looking into the destinations of the ships and various containers within it, Gregson found himself believing that the four ships that Sherlock and Joan had narrowed it down to were indeed the most likely. But the nature of the case meant that he was unwilling to devote the entirety of his available officers to a single ship. Although he trusted Sherlock and Joan's work, which he found to be beyond reproach, no one was infallible, and this was the last chance they had to rescue those women before they were sold into the clutches of a sadistic and remorseless sociopath. At the same time, he did not want to send dozens of officers to the port, as it could attract the attention of Dalton and his associates, as well as the people who would be transporting the girls to the port. So after careful consultations and negotiations with Sherlock and Joan, a solid plan was formed.

Sherlock and Joan spent their time reviewing the contents, destination and details of the ships at the port, as well as the layout of the port itself. As well as this, they kept a close eye on the movements of Dalton and his associates, who left the hotel shortly after breakfast and did not return until six o'clock in the evening. During this time, a small number of officers and a few of Sherlock's irregulars had been watching over the port, with the latter infiltrating it inconspicuously at all possible opportunities. Like the officers who followed Dalton and his associates into the city, nothing odd or unexpected was viewed or reported during this time. By ten o'clock, after watching Dalton and his associates sipping expensive cognac and smoking in their master's lair, Joan found herself questioning whether they could be wrong. What if the event had already occurred? What if they had been blindsided?

"I assure you, Watson, we are not wrong" came the confident voice of Sherlock Holmes, whose apparent ability to read her thoughts with startling accuracy caused Joan a mixture of impression and panic.

"What?" she asked, adjusting her position on the couch as she turned towards him, and dropping a file into her lap. Sherlock watched her for a moment before lowering his head, turning back towards his laptop and continuing to type away.

"You find yourself, understandable and quite logically, questioning whether we are wrong about the time and location of the transfer of the fourteen young women we are seeking to liberate from their imminent transfer into the clutches of Mr Dalton" Sherlock stated, his eyes not leaving the screen as he spoke, his fingers tapping confidently upon the keys of his laptop. Joan swallowed slightly, cast her glance down to her lap and then back to her partner, once she realised that the sound of tapping keys had ceased. "Fear not, Watson" he stated, turning towards Joan as he spoke. "I assure you, we are quite correct."

"How can you be so certain?" Joan asked in a low and hesitant manner. "He's sat sipping alcohol that is probably worth more than my car, whilst talking to his associates and lounging in his suite" she stated simply, gesturing towards the laptop as she spoke. "Those aren't the most likely actions of a man about to buy fourteen human beings."

"'Seem' being the operative word" Sherlock returned, his voice low and gentle. "And unfortunately for the young women in question, Dalton and men like him do not view them as 'human beings'" Sherlock stated, his eyes widening and his head bobbing slightly as he struggled with the words. "To them, they are simply commodities, whose human value is nothing compared to the financial gain to be acquired from selling them" he stated, watching as Joan removed her gaze from him and appeared visibly uncomfortable, her nails digging into her palm as she exhaled slowly. "It is a deplorable way in which to view another human being, Watson. And whilst it is something that you and I will never fully understand, it is something that these men are more than accustomed to" he stated, watching as Joan turned towards him and watched him with expectant eyes. "The reason they are so relaxed is primarily because they believe their plan has not yet been foiled, and that we know nothing of the imminent closure of their reprehensible deal. But also, and more disturbingly, they are so devoid of morality and conscience that they bear no ill-feelings or remorse towards their intended actions which, as far as they are aware, will result in a successful transfer and certain profit. They've done this before, Watson. But our actions in the next few hours will ensure that they are unable to do it again."

Joan considered his words for a moment, and whilst she understood and accepted the logic of his argument, she still found the sight of those well-dressed and arrogant-looking men relaxing in their luxury suite to be in stark contrast to the image of such people she had formed in her mind. She pictured nervous expressions, hushed words and nervous glances. But instead, the faces before her were sipping merrily on their alcohol, smiling as they spoke, and exhibiting as much levels of relaxation as one would expect to find in a massage parlour.

"Let's say you're right" Joan stated, leaning forwards slightly as she spoke. "Let's say they're so convinced that we know nothing of their plans, plans which they are certain will go off without issue, that they are calm and relaxed and completely unaffected by the consequences of their actions" she began, watching as Sherlock continued to watch her curiously, and offered her a small and encouraging nod in response. "How can we be sure that those girls are being transported to Colombia on _The Recessor_ tomorrow morning?" she began, poising herself for his response. "What if we jumped to the most logical explanation and clung to it without thinking it through?" she continued, watching as Sherlock watched her with patient and inquisitive eyes. "What if we're wrong?"

Something in Joan's voice caught Sherlock's attention, and for a moment he found himself questioning whether it was just the case she was talking about, or perhaps it was them. As he stared at his partner, he found a look of mingled confusion and doubt staring back at him, which appeared remarkably out of place on the face of Joan Watson. Although they had both agreed to deal with their relationship after the case was resolved, keeping their thoughts and feelings encased within their minds for even the most temporary of times was proving to be difficult. And the look in Joan's eyes as she glanced at him expectantly showed how her feelings on the currently forbidden subject were beginning to seep through. Before he could consider this further, Joan continued to speak.

"What if it's a rouse?" she asked, her wide eyes meeting his. "What if Dalton knows how much we know and is setting us up? Distracting us whilst the real exchange takes place elsewhere?"

"Watson" Sherlock began, his voice adopting the low and gentle tone he often used when attempting to console or reassure her. "The evidence from everything we have been working on is all highly suggestive. Whilst it is open to interpretation and is by no means definitive, all present indicators suggest that the transaction is imminent. Too much attention has been attracted to the hotel and, by extension, to them. Even through their arrogance, they are not complete buffoons. They are aware of the hindrance that a police presence will have on their plans, and will therefore attempt to bring their business to a close as soon as possible using a method which is the least likely to link them directly to their offence. The timings, their _modus operandi_ and their intentions all confirm that the transaction will be conducted at night, the women transported by ship, and the girls dealt with by a second or third party until the heat dies down. Based on the departure time of Dalton and his associates from the hotel tomorrow, and the fragments of conversation we were able to hear via the camera in his room, there is strong evidence to suggest that we are correct" he stated, pausing for a moment as she absorbed his words. "I understand that this could be considered a mere theory" Sherlock stated, gesturing with his hands and nodding as he spoke. "But it is much more than that, Watson. It is a highly probable conclusion arrived at through our usual methods of logic, deduction and investigative skill which, combined, defines our work. A work which often provides us with the answers we or the NYPD seek."

"'Often', yes" Joan replied. "But 'often' is not 'always', is it?" she continued, looking up at him with uncertainty. "How can you be so sure?"

"Occum's razor" Sherlock responded simply, his tone and expression causing Joan to blink once before giving him an uncertain look.

"I'm sorry?"

"The belief that the explanation which is the most simple is most likely the correct one" he replied immediately, his voice adopting its usual confident and fast-paced tone as he gave his explanation.

"Most likely being the operative term" Joan stated gently, her words echoing Sherlock's previous ones. There was a silence that fell between them for a few moments, before Joan rose her head and looked at Sherlock inquisitively. "That doesn't sound like something you'd believe in. It's uncertain, it's… it's almost vague."

"It's science" Sherlock returned, his eyes alight as he spoke. "It is maths, statistics, numerical. Whilst I generally abhor uncertain proverbs or questionable idioms, I hold this one in much higher esteem." Joan considered this for a moment, before nodding in response and glancing back down at the file in her lap. "So you believe that we are right, and that Occum's razor is right, because you believe in science?" she asked.

"Science is not the only variable, Watson. Nor is it the most important" he added, tapping his fingers on the lid of his laptop. "Our work is the most important, Watson. Our methods and our partnership. That is what has guided us through this case and led us to this conclusion" he stated, looking up at her as he spoke. "I do not hold confidence in the conclusion simply because it is scientific, but because we have applied our usual methods to it" he stated, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. "The one thing I hold in greater esteem that our methods is our partnership, Watson" he stated, meeting her gaze as he spoke. "And I am confident that our conclusion is correct because I am confident at our ability to arrive at it. As partners" he stated, lifting the lid on his laptop. Before Joan could respond a dull buzzing sound from Sherlock's inside pocket caused a rift in her thoughts, as her partner delved into his jacket and removed his phone. Joan watched in an uncertain silence as Sherlock spoke to the person on the other end of the phone, nodding a few times as he spoke, his eyes darting across the room with interest as he listened intently. After a few moments the conversation ended and he hung up the phone, placing it back in his pocket as he turned back to Joan.

"That was Captain Gregson" Sherlock explained, glancing up towards his partner who was watching him with an attentive expression. "Everything is arranged. He and Detective Bell will meet us at the port shortly after midnight" he stated.

"Right" she blinked, looking down at her phone as she spoke. "So we have just under two hours before we have to leave."

"Yes" Sherlock mumbled, nodding as he spoke. "Which gives us ample time to review the layout of the port, the four ships in question, and their combined one-hundred and seventy-two containers."

"Eighty-six of which will be placed on _The Recessor_ shortly before 6am." she sighed, the image of dozens of large steel containers flooding her mind.

"Due to shift changes and security levels, and given the fact that the containers will be loaded on to the ships from approximately 5am, it is likely that their captors will infiltrate the port in the early hours of the morning" Sherlock began, pushing his laptop aside and turning towards Joan as he spoke. "Arriving shortly after midnight will allow us to consider the area, review any necessary footage and make the security personnel aware of a possible break-in" he continued. "We may then begin to search containers" he added, looking directly at Joan as he spoke. Although she appeared fine, he knew that the injuries she had sustained would be causing her some discomfort, especially as she had refused pain medication due to fears of becoming drowsy (a subject they had argued about for almost ten minutes). "Are you certain you wish to attend, Watson?"

"Of course" she returned immediately, her voice calm and her expression absolute. She met Sherlock's gaze and held it for several moments, as she felt the warmth of his expression as he regarded her. "We should keep looking through the inventories and the maps of the port" she stated gently, reaching for the file in her lap and opening it once more, to a page she had already read at least five times. Sherlock watched her for a moment before nodding in agreement, and picking up a file from the table. The next hour and a half were spent in a comfortable silence, with Clyde's gentle crunching of some crisp lettuce and cucumber providing a reassuring and almost homely backdrop to their work.

At half-past eleven Sherlock and Joan retreated to their rooms and changed into suitable attire for the evening's events. Joan dressed herself in black trousers, a matching cotton shirt and a fitted zip-up black jacket, with a pair of chunky black heels. As she tied her hair back into a high ponytail whilst walking into the living area she found herself facing Sherlock, who was dressed in similar trousers, a black shirt and a fitted black jacket. Had the reason for their state of dress been less dire, it would almost have been funny.

"The car is outside" Sherlock stated simply, taking a few steps towards her as he spoke. "Are you ready, Watson?" he asked, his tone becoming lower as he reached her. Their proximity, whilst not too close, was a couple of inches closer than they stood usually. She could feel the warmth of his breath lightly graze her cheek as she turned towards him, her wide eyes glistening as she attempted a small smile.

"Yes" she stated simply. "You?" They watched each other in silence for a few moments, their eyes drawing them closer together as both time and circumstance robbed them of the ability to convey exactly what it was that they wished to discuss. They once more found themselves in limbo, with both words and actions relating to their relationship banned for the time being. They had managed to keep themselves under control for hours, the whole day, even. But as they stood opposite each other now, dressed in black and about to leave to attempt to rescue the fourteen kidnapped women who they had been battling to save, they found their resolve faltering. Joan looked back up towards Sherlock, her eyes meeting his as she nervously awaited his answer. Sherlock nodded once, taking a step forward as he did so, causing Joan's breath to hitch slightly at the closeness that they had not shared in over twelve hours.

"Yes" he mumbled, continuing to hold their gaze as he spoke. Joan felt his hand on her upper arm, warmth radiating through her at his touch. She felt herself falter once more at the contact, turning back towards him and looking up at his wide and uncertain eyes. He wore the same look he did when she chastised him for breaching a boundary that he knew should have been respected. But this time there was no such breach. With little thought to their previous agreement and in full knowledge that they were about to leave, something within them both compelled them to act. Joan took a small step closer, which Sherlock reacted to by drawing his hand from her arm to her back, pulling her towards him with both hands as he kissed her passionately. Joan rose her hand to his cheek, and her fingers which were partially concealed beneath her sleeve travelled forward to his cheek, pulling him towards her as they continued to kiss for several moments. Sherlock's hands travelled across her back and her hips, causing her to quiver with anticipation as she released a shaky breath against his lips, before opening her eyes and breaking the kiss. Joan struggled to recapture her breath as she leaned back slightly, Sherlock's hands falling obediently from her body as he took a step back and cleared his throat. They did not need to communicate verbally to know that discussing or even mentioning the moment they had just shared at that particular moment in time would be ill-advised, a selfish distraction they simply could not afford. As if agreeing to this through thought alone, they each adjusting their positions, Sherlock taking a step back and Joan turning to the side slightly, her eyes falling to the ground as she tried to work out how it had just happened.

"The car is outside" Sherlock repeated, his voice low and slightly husky. The breathlessness of his tone caused Joan to lift her head slightly, running her eyes across him quickly and nodding in agreement.

"Yeah, we should head downstairs" she stated, turning on the spot and heading for the door. She could hear Sherlock's footsteps approaching quickly behind her, but was surprised to feel his hand upon her wrist and palm.

"Watson" he called gently, his warm fingers finding hers. She turned on the spot, looking up at him with a calm expression, her eyes meeting his and remaining there. "It will be alright" he added simply, his warm and wide eyes running across her face.

"I know" she added gently, squeezing his fingers lightly in response for a moment, before they both lowered their hands and passed through the doorway and corridor and into the elevator.

They travelled the short distance to the foyer in a relaxing and reflective silence, and as soon as the elevator doors opened on their floor their attention was directed completely upon the case at hand. Sherlock and Joan walked confidently across the familiar tiled floor and towards the sleek black car which was waiting for them outside. As Sherlock moved aside for his partner to pass through the door first, Joan felt the cool air from the street revitalising. This was the first time in almost a week she had set foot outside the building, and the sound of her heels upon the pavement as the breeze swept across her face made her feel both relieved and fearful. Sherlock seemed to sense her discomfort, and he called her name gently as he held the car door open for her as she eased herself onto the cold leather back seat. Sherlock closed the door behind her and sighed lightly, turning back towards the building and taking in its Victorian architecture, the intricate designs of the wrought-iron features, and the dark wooden door. But it was not the outside of the building that he would miss. Sherlock turned instantly from the building, walking around the car and opening the opposite door. He sat beside Joan for the ten minute drive to the port, their bodies just inches apart, their eyes forward, and their hands firmly by their sides.

The car pulled up outside one of the main entrances to the port, where Joan instantly recognised the figures of Gregson and Bell. She found herself relaxing slightly at the sight, undoing her seatbelt and stepping out of the car and onto the pavement as her colleagues walked towards the car.

"Hey" Bell greeted, pressing his lips into a small smile. "How are you feelin'?"

"I'm fine" Joan responded in a calm and casual manner, as she heard Sherlock's footsteps approach her from behind.

"Captain" Sherlock stated, "Detective."

"Holmes" they returned, as Gregson nodded towards Joan. Gregson and Bell looked from Sherlock to Joan, their eyes running over them both curiously. There was something going on, but they didn't know what, and at that particular moment they did not have much time to enquire about it. Bell assumed Sherlock had said or done something to earn a dressing down from Joan, whilst Gregson was pondering whether they'd argued over Joan's injuries, and whether they should prevent her from attending that night. Gregson knew Joan would fight for her chance to be there, and wouldn't allow Sherlock to talk her out of it. After a couple moments of consideration, Gregson cleared his throat and turned to the consultants.

"The security office is just this way" he stated, turning on the spot and continuing to speak as he led them into the port. "The security guards on duty have given us access to the live CCTV of the area surrounding the four ships we're focusing on" Gregson explained as they walked through the dimly lit area. Joan could hear the gentle, rhythmic sound of flowing water as she felt the gravel beneath her feet. She was also aware of Sherlock walking a respectable distance behind her, his hands in his pockets as he turned his head attentively towards Captain Gregson, who was continuing to speak. "There's been no suspicious activity so far, and the guys have had their eye out all day, ever since you two managed to narrow it down" he continued. "And, as you wanna focus on _The Recessor_, Bell and I are gonna check out the other three ships, with the help of one of my officers. Another officer, James Hilton, is gonna be helpin' you guys" before Sherlock could protest, Bell began to speak.

"Hilton was Thomas' partner" he interceded, speaking quickly enough to cut Sherlock off before he even began. Sherlock nodded in understanding and remained silent as they continued to follow the Captain, making a sharp left and heading towards a small building which was slightly brighter lit than the surrounding area. Gregson led them inside, where Joan was slightly surprised to find no security officers, just four men she presumed to be the police officers who would be assisting them.

"As we discussed earlier, the security guys are on the look-out for anything out of place, anything unusual" Bell stated, rubbing his hands together as they entered the small building. "Six of us plus the security plus the two keepin' tabs on CCTV to keep us in the know is gonna be plenty, and it won't alert suspicion, if and when Dalton's pal shows up" Sherlock and Joan nodded in understanding, before turning towards Gregson, who was clearly awaiting their attention.

"There are a similar number of shipping containers on your ship as there are on the other three combined. But as the other three are fairly close together, it's not gonna be too difficult to search them in the same time" Gregson stated, indicating towards two of the monitors. Sherlock walked towards them, glancing across the six screens before them, and nodding in understanding. "And as I'm sure you're already aware, the shipping containers are arranged in rows of six. We each take a couple rows, patrol 'em, keep an eye out and report any problems to each other, got it?" he stated, turning to Sherlock and Joan as he spoke. They nodded in agreement, Joan turning towards him in acknowledgement, Sherlock's eyes not leaving the screens before them.

"Do you have the equipment, Captain?" Sherlock asked, removing his gaze from the screens and looking towards the Captain. Gregson nodded, pulling up a black carry-case from beneath the desk, unzipping it and pulling out several identical devices.

"Thermal imaging cameras" he stated, handing them out to Sherlock, Joan, Bell and the officers. "As you know, they can detect body heat. So if you hear somethin', or if you wanna get a look inside a container, use this" he stated. Joan thanked him as she accepted hers, turning it over in her hands as she examined it. It reminded her of a tool she used in her surgical days, which felt like a lifetime ago. She sighed at the recollection. Perhaps it was.

"Holmes, Watson, this is Officer Hilton" Gregson stated, and Sherlock and Joan both looked up as a tall dark-haired man in his mid-thirties approached them, nodding in acknowledgement and holding out his hand. Sherlock and Joan shook it in turn, offering the man a few words of condolence as they did so.

"I assure you, Officer, we will get justice for Thomas" Sherlock stated, nodding as he spoke. "You have my word." Hilton thanked him and nodded in response, before accepting his camera, testing it out, and attaching it to his utility belt. Sherlock and Joan, neither of whom were in possession of such a belt, simply held their cameras in their black-gloved hands.

"Alright, we better get goin'" Gregson stated, exhaling deeply as he cast one final look back at the monitors, briefly studying each in turn, before attaching his own camera to his belt. "Everyone know what's happenin'?" he asked, earning a chorus of agreement and assurance from the individuals in question. "Good" he said simply, pushing the door open and allowing them to pass through. "And remember, report anything suspicious, alright? Anything at all" once more, Captain Gregson's comment was met with a chorus of agreement, as Sherlock, Joan and Hilton walked together towards the shipping containers for _The Recessor_.

As they approached the shipping containers, Joan found herself aware of the daunting nature of the task before them. Each container was about twelve feet by eight feet wide, and made of a strong and almost impregnable-looking metal. The door at the front was the only entrance or exit, and they were spaced about four feet apart. There were rows upon rows of these identical steel boxes, and Joan followed the seemingly endless line of them with her eyes, before taking in a deep breath and turning towards Sherlock and Hilton.

"We should split up" she announced confidently. "If we take one row each, then move to the left to search the next row, we'll be rotating the shipping containers we're checking. It'll keep us alert and we'll probably be more aware of any changes" she stated, her eyes not leaving the vast metal graveyard before her. Sherlock watched her curiously, recalling the last time she had recommended they split up, which had been following an argument. He tried to dispel his concerns and focus solely on the case, but was unsuccessful in the attempt.

"I agree" he stated, appreciating the logic of her argument, whilst mourning the reason behind it. "Keep your phones near you at all times" he stated, before turning to Hilton. "We exchange numbers" he stated to Hilton, gesturing to Joan as he spoke. After a minute or so Sherlock and Joan had exchanged details with Hilton, who walked down the first of the two dimly-lit middle rows of the shipping containers with a confident step and without a backward glance. Sherlock and Joan lingered on the spot for a moment, before turning towards each other and finding their eyes meeting once more, as the light wind blew upon their hair and clothes, and their shadows danced upon the ground. "Don't be a stranger, Watson" he stated amiably as he indicated towards his phone. Although she felt certain that he was reminding her to call him if necessary, she could not help but wonder if there was greater depth behind his words.

"I won't" she stated solemnly, her voice warm and reassuring, and with a confident air that seemed to cause Sherlock to relax slightly. "Don't you be a stranger either" she returned, her voice slightly lower as she spoke.

"Impossible" he stated simply, testing his light against the shipping container a few feet in front of him. After assuring himself it worked fine, he turned back towards his partner, who was watching him with an expectant expression. "Be careful, Watson, be alert" he stated, his voice becoming more cautionary and his tone imploring.

"And you" she returned, adjusting her grip on her own light. She looked up at Sherlock, who simply nodded in response to her statement, shifted slightly on the spot, and took several steps forward. Joan remained perfectly still, motionless, as she watched the figure of her partner disappear into the darkness. Joan swallowed, turned towards the column she had assigned herself, and began to walk.

Sherlock, Joan and Hilton walked down the columns and onto the next for over an hour and a half with no direct contact from each other or Gregson and Bell. On two occasions Joan saw Sherlock walking down the opposite end of the next column as she reached the top of hers. Although they were over a hundred feet away, she recognised his stance, his step, the position of his arms and the angle of his neck. She spent the next couple of moments wondering whether their continued association with one another had led them to adopt a similar pace, explaining how they seemed to be covering the same distance at the same time. Joan quickly dispelled this distracting thought, turning on her light once more and casting it across the vicinity briefly, before turning it off once more. The night was becoming bitterly cold, and the crunching gravel beneath her feet made her wary of her current solitude, and the incredible distance between not only the shipping containers, but her partners. _Partner._

As the word echoed in her mind, Joan found a sudden and unfamiliar sound of metal upon metal caused her to come to a complete stop. Her breathing hitched as she paused, her breath visible before her due to the coldness, as she remained perfectly still and listened out for a repeat of the sound, in the hopes of being able to locate it. After a few moments of silence the same eerie grinding sound occurred once more, and Joan's heightened senses helped her to narrow down its location: It appeared to be coming from further down her current column, towards the centre. Joan took a cautious step forward, the gravel crunching beneath her feet once more, as she made her way down the centre of the aisle. As she reached halfway and was about to continue, the grinding metal sound occurred once more, and she turned on the spot to find herself standing a few feet from one of the shipping containers. Joan took a couple of steps forwards so that her side was pressed up against the back end of the shipping container, the ice-cold metal numbing her fingertips. She remained perfectly still, listening out carefully as she reached for her light, taking a step back as she pointed it towards the container.

Joan held the light steady and took another step back, her heart stopping for a moment as her device registered at least half a dozen figures whose bodies were represented by separate balls of light. Joan saw that they people were either laying on the bottom of the container or slumped against the side, and from the brightness she could tell that at least two of the individuals in question were almost certainly in need of medical attention. Joan turned off the light and pressed her side to the back of the container, running her hand along the thick metal which separated her from some of the women. Joan removed her hand from the side of the container and made her way slowly around it, turning the corner and creeping between the containers and towards the side where the door was. The container in question was on the edge of the final row and right beside the water, making it easily accessible to anyone hoping to break in to it. Or, at least, easier than some of the others.

The sound of the water permeated the silence and obscured all other sounds as Joan crept along the final few feet of the container and towards the front. As she did so, she glanced up at the printed number upon the container, intending on texting it to Sherlock. She typed the number into her phone as she continued slowly down the side, before reaching the front of the container, and staring straight ahead of her. Right in front of the container was _The Recessor_ itself, a large and notably modern cargo ship, which was less than forty feet from her current position. As she held the phone in her gloved hand, Joan suddenly found herself aware of just how six of the women had been transported to the container. _They've been on the ship_ she reasoned, her eyes studying it for a moment. _We were so focused on the containers that we did not search the ship._ As she reached the front of the container and turned to the left, finding herself facing the door itself, Joan realised that the women must have been taken to the ship the night before and, judging by their current states, sedated and hidden on board, until it was safe to move them. As she pressed her hands to the bolt on the front of the container and found herself desperately searching for a way to open it, she wondered how the women were not found during routine inspections of the ship. _Unless there were no inspections_ she thought. _If the containers are due to be placed on the ship at 5am, perhaps the inspections on the ship are earlier?_ She thought, glancing down at her phone, which revealed the time to be twenty-past one in the morning. But as she glanced at the time, she found herself staring at another part of her phone, which filled her with a combination of frustration and fear: she had no cell service at that part of the port. Joan turned around and looked up the right and down the left sides, glancing around in the hope of catching sight of her partner or their new colleague, but it was in vain. She was alone by the container and her partner could be hundreds of feet in the opposite direction. Before Joan could act upon this piece of information, the sound of a voice from behind her caused her heart to stop and her hands to tremble.

"Miss Watson" called the voice, in the same ice-cold and hostile voice she recognised from very recently. As she processed the words, the sound of crunching gravel coming closer and closer to her caused her breath to hitch and her breathing to increase.

Joan's hands fell limply from the door as she turned on the spot, facing the approaching figure with a confident stance and a stony stare.

"Leo" she said simply, watching the dark-suited man cautiously as he approached her. One hand was on his hip and the other was behind his back, completely from view. The sound of the water continued, seeming to become louder and louder. Although Leo's voice echoed through it, all other sounds were obscured, hidden from Joan's ears, which caused her other senses to heighten.

"Joan" he returned, his mouth playing into a small smile as he stopped five or six feet in front of her. "You know, I… I really didn't expect to see you hear tonight" he stated, raising his eyebrows slightly as he spoke through his sinister smile. "Are you alone?"

"Are you?" she asked, her voice sounding more confident than she felt.

"My men have… dealt with the security guards" he stated nonchalantly as he stared at her coldly. "And I have seen no police, so…" he continued, his eyes falling to the ground before he looked back at her. "Where is your partner, hm? Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Where are the other eight girls you kidnapped?" Joan responded, her gaze not wavering and her voice not faltering. If he wasn't attempting to conceal his surprise, agitation and apprehension, Leo would have almost been impressed. Instead, he flashed her a wry smile and exhaled from his nose, before looking back up at her, the whites of his eyes shining through the dimness of the night.

"I didn't think we would be having another conversation. Not after our last one" he stated, his voice low and even as he stared at her with malice. "In the wine cellar" he added, watching her for a response. But he found none. He scoffed slightly, glanced at his watch and then looked back at her, the confident woman with the unwavering resolution. "I thought you were dead, I confess" he stated, scoffing slightly once more as he spoke. "I should have checked, I should have made sure" he added, taking a step closer towards her and drawing his hand from behind his back, revealing a black handgun. Joan's eyes widened slightly and her breath hitched as he rose the gun, aiming it directly at her as he removed the safety. The sound of the water and wind mingled, becoming slightly louder and concealing the sound of nearby cars, horns and city-sounds, but Leo's voice was loud and clear. And despite the sounds of the water and her attacker's intimidating voice, Joan was sure she heard the familiar crunching sound of gravel close by. "I won't make that mistake again."

Joan felt her body hit the ground as a single bullet was fired.


	22. Til Death Do Us Part?

A/N: Hi everyone, thanks for continuing to read the story. I am happy to write the fics you asked me to in the reviews section once this one is over. I've also given some thought into writing a sequel to this one which, after some consideration, I believe could be possible. Would you be interested in that, or would you prefer something new, and to leave this one where it finishes? Also, I'm happy to write a Joan/Sherlock pregnancy storyline into the sequel, if you would like a sequel and if that's what you would like. I really don't mind, so please let me know your preference.

Thank you, and I hope you enjoy this latest instalment.

HQ21

Sherlock placed the thermal imaging camera in his pocket as he continued to patrol the areas surrounding the shipping containers. The night was bitterly cold and even his thick black coat and scarf were not protecting him from the chill. He placed his hands into the depths of his pockets and walked forward, listening out carefully for any sounds that seemed out of place. The distant noise of the city and the gentle, rhythmic sound of water had provided a background sound for over an hour as he and his associates kept watch over the port. The port was desolate and still, with only occasional glimpses of his partner and Officer Hilton reminding him that he was not alone.

Every so often, usually when he reached the end of one of the rows closest to the water, he would see Joan's figure walk to the end and turn left, as he walked to the top and turned left, disappearing down opposite rows. Due to the port being a virtual dead-zone for their cell phones, it was the only form of contact he shared with her during the past hour, after having spent almost a week in her constant company. He had savoured the glance of her, her confident walk and determined step, as she carefully scanned the containers before her. He found the glances of her he was able to enjoy to be rejuvenating and mentally nourishing, a fine tonic against the bitter wind and little progress having been made in the past hour. Each time he glanced up at her, he watched her for a few moments, being completely unaware that she too had searched for him, savouring the view of his presence mere moments before. As Sherlock reached the top of one of their clandestine and unknown meeting spots, he turned slightly, expecting to see her dark figure clutching the camera in her hand. But to his surprise, their previously well-timed yet chance encounters in the port seemed to have come to a temporary standstill. She was not there.

Sherlock remained still on the spot, his body half-turned towards the aisle he had just walked down, and half-facing where he should be walking next. As he stared at the quiet and solitary space before him, his mind raced as he considered the mathematics behind their movements: Joan and Sherlock walked at a similar pace, hence him seeing her with some frequency. Since the last time he saw her, approximately seventeen minutes previously, she should have walked down five aisles, and her figure should be at the opposite one he was currently standing in, about to approach the sixth. He waited for a few moments, reconsidering his maths and the timings of his steps and hers, to try to figure out if he was wrong. Despite having complete faith in his formula and knowing that, logically, Joan should be at the bottom of the aisle at that very moment, her dark clothed figure mirroring his own, she was not. The cold wind brushed against Sherlock's face, causing a chill to run through him as he continued to stare straight ahead of himself into the darkness, and willing her to appear. But she did not. Sherlock exhaled a short breath of air, drummed his fingers nervously against his thigh, and walked briskly back down the aisle he had just travelled up.

With each step Sherlock took, he found himself experiencing the inexplicable feeling that something was wrong. His breath appeared before him as he walked, his pace increasing as he headed towards the end of the row of containers, his eyes wide and alert, darting across the nearby vicinity and searching for signs of his partner, but he found none. As he reached half-way down the aisle, he reached into his pocket and removed the thermal imaging camera. He had checked the majority of shipping containers on this side after having last seen Joan, with no results. Anything the camera picked up now would be new, and it could be her. Before he had chance to turn it on, his head darted up quickly and his eyes widened, his senses heightening as he thought he heard the sound of her voice. Sherlock remained perfectly still for a moment, his breathing low and barely audible as he listened out for her voice once more. A few seconds later, when he was beginning to question whether he had heard her in the first place, the familiar sound of her tone greeted his ears once more. It was low and quiet, almost an echo, but it was her. Unquestionably her.

_"Are you?"_ were the words he heard his partner speak, he confident and determined manner clear in her tone. The words drifted to him, as if on the wind.

Sherlock clicked the camera on and rose it, pointing it directly ahead of him. The device instantly picked up the profile of a figure, which burned brightly through the darkness. The figure was standing on the other side of the shipping containers, in front of one container which appeared to be three in front of him. He stared intently at this, and noticed that there appeared to be five or six slightly more faded lights in the container itself, which was directly behind the burning light of the standing figure. None of those individuals had been there twenty minutes before, he was certain of it. As Sherlock turned the camera slightly the device picked up the profile of a second, taller figure, who too burned brightly, shining through the darkness. Whilst he found himself hoping it was Hilton, he doubted it immensely. By his calculations, their officer associate would be two rows to his immediate right, slowly making his way towards them, checking each container meticulously as he did so. He was to Sherlock's right, and these figures were to his left. As he continued to walk forwards, turning the camera off and placing it back into his pocket, he found himself feeling convinced that the first figure was his partner.

Sherlock walked quickly, passing the first container quickly, and slowing his pace as he approached the second, where the sound of Joan's voice travelled strongly through the night air, her words louder and clearer than they had been before, confirming her presence at the other side of the container.

_"Where are the other eight girls you kidnapped?" _Came the strong and defiant voice of his partner, whose determination was not faltering. Sherlock pressed his body against the back of the shipping container, and he slowly made his way around the side with slow, deliberate movements. As he did so, he considered Joan's words, and surmised that the six figures his camera picked up in that very container were, as he had suspected, some of the kidnapped girls. Their low body heat emissions revealed that they were in urgent need of medical attention. But due to the lack of phone signal and imminent danger he felt Joan could be in, he needed to press forward. He would assist his partner and the girls, whose entombment in that steel casket was almost too much to bear.

Sherlock pressed his back tightly against the cold metal wall of the shipping container, moving slowly forward, his movements deft and his senses heightened. As he continued forward, he heard the response of the individual Joan was talking to, whose sinister tone was frighteningly familiar.

_"I thought you were dead, I confess"_ Sherlock heard, the voice of Leo Clements permeating the quietness of their current location, as the sound of the water provided a backdrop to the conversation. Sherlock senses the sinister and dangerous tone Leo was using, and based on his previous actions and the current situation, he had no doubt that Leo was prepared to eliminate anyone who stood in his way. He had killed Thomas and seriously assaulted Joan once before, and Sherlock knew he was more than capable of doing so again.

_"I should have checked, I should have made sure" _continued Leo's voice, as Sherlock edged further forward, increasing his speed slightly so that he reached the top left corner of the container, pressing his back to it so that he was shielded by the darkness. As he reached the edge, he leaned back completely against the shipping container, his fingertips pressed to the cold metal, before turning his head to the side slightly and leaning forward, casting a furtive glance before him which confirmed what he already knew. From his angle Sherlock could see Joan's right side, revealing her to be standing in the centre of the front of the shipping container. Sherlock also saw the tall profile of Leo Clements about twelve feet from his current location. The man was similarly attired to Joan and himself, and even from that distant Sherlock could detect the sinister grin which was playing upon his lips. But it was not Leo's face or even his words that was causing Sherlock discomfort and unease at that particular moment: it was the object he appeared to be holding behind his back in his right hand. Sherlock heard Leo's words as he spoke to Joan, but his attention remained focussed on the man's right hand, which he brought forward in a single quick and deliberate movement, revealing what Sherlock suspected and feared: a handgun, which he pointed directly at Joan.

Sherlock felt his breath and heart still for a moment, as anger and apprehension burned through his entire body, alighting his being. Sherlock considered calling to Leo in order to distract him, so that the gun would be pointed at him instead of Joan. But he quickly decided against this, fearing that startling the man with his presence would cause him to accidentally fire the weapon and slay his partner. Instead, Sherlock edged forward slightly, his body tensing in apprehension at a decision he made without question and without doubt, but with determination and complete contentment. As Sherlock shifted on the spot and turned so he was standing next to instead of against the shipping container, he felt the gravel crunch beneath his feet as he continued forward, the sound of the safety being removed from the weapon increasing his pace.

_"I won't make that mistake again"_ Leo stated with conviction, at the precise moment that Sherlock planted his foot on the ground at the corner of the container, before rushing forward and reaching his partner in just three steps, pushing her forcefully to the ground as Leo fired the trigger. Sherlock's movements had been so fast and so silent that neither Leo nor Joan had sensed his presence or his actions. The first they knew of his being there at all was as the bullet which had been meant for Joan sped through the air and penetrated Sherlock's chest, with such incredible force that it caused him to turn to the side and be thrown to the ground a few feet from his fallen partner, their bodies mirroring each other upon the dusty ground.

Joan landed on her left side, the force of her fall winding her for a moment, as her entire left side ached with the impact upon her recent unhealed bruising. She groaned slightly, her hands clasping the gravel, which cut her delicate skin as she attempted to push herself up from the ground. Despite her initial shock and confusion, it took her less than two seconds to remember the feeling of someone physically pushing her to the ground. It was hands she felt upon her body, not the impact of a bullet. Joan wiped some hair from her face as she pushed herself up with one hand, her arms trembling as they supported her. She turned to the right, her heart racing and her unsteady breathing both almost stopping completely as she processed the sight before her. Sherlock was lying on the ground a few feet from her, his hands pressed to his chest, his body tense and rigid, as he omitted some struggling breaths and groans of pain from the sharp and searing sensation caused by the bullet which had struck him.

"Sherlock" Joan breathed nervously, her confusion and shock paralysing her for a moment as she took in the image of her partner on the ground, blood pouring through his fingers. Joan responded immediately, planting her hands on the ground and crawling towards him, calling his name a couple of times through her nervous and panicked breathing. By the time she reached his side she realised what must have happened, causing her to tremble with guilt and fear as she rushed towards him, pushing her hands past his weak and trembling ones as she applied pressure to the bullet wound. The night was cold and bitter, and his blood felt hot against her numb and trembling hands. "No, no, why… why would-" she began, breaking off as she looked down at his face. Sherlock was as white as a sheet and becoming paler by the moment. His eyes were bright and glassy, and his lips were already losing their normal pink hue and turning and deathly shade of white, as he trembled beneath her touch. Due to her focus upon him, Joan had been completely unaware of the movements of Leo, whose initial shock of the arrival of Sherlock was wearing off, and he rose his gun once more at Joan's crouching figure. But despite his pained and semi-conscious state, Sherlock was aware of his actions and intentions, and turned his head from him back to his partner.

"Watson" Sherlock breathed through gritted teeth, pain evident in his voice as tilted his head back slightly as he attempted to deal with the pain. "Run" he ordered, raising his hands and using all the strength he had to attempt to push her away. He attempted to repeat his instruction but called out in pain, causing Joan to lean closer to him and increase the pressure she was applying.

"No" she returned defiantly, her voice high in emotion, as she Sherlock's eyes flickered and he looked up at her with an expression she did not recognise.

"Run" he commanded, his tone low and determined, despite his pain and semi-conscious state. As he spoke he became aware of the sound of running from behind him in the distance, as a single strobe of yellow light shone past him and towards Leo.

"NYPD! Freeze!" came the voice of Officer Hilton from the distance, as the light shone brighter against Leo who, immediately and instinctively, turned on the spot and aimed his gun towards the voice he did not recognise, firing a single shot. Less than a moment later Officer Hilton returned fire, firing two shots in close succession which both struck Leo in the heart, killing him before he hit the ground.

Joan's attention turned to Leo for only a moment, before a groan from Sherlock drew her attention back to him. The exact location of the entry wound was obscured by Sherlock's thick coat, which she was unable to remove due to the coldness and his current levels of blood-loss, making a medical analysis of his injury problematic. Due to his ability to speak and the location of the bullet she suspected that he had not been struck in the lung, but the blood-loss was still significant, and Sherlock was beginning to display some of the early symptoms of shock which, given his injury and their current location, was a very real possibility. Sherlock's instruction did not surprise or confuse her, it was clear that he wanted her to leave, to go to a place of safety, to seek refuge. But despite his command and the nature of their current predicament, she remained defiant. The idea of leaving him never crossed her mind, even when he ordered her to do so.

"Run" Sherlock repeated, hissing the word through his teeth as he groaned in pain, before clenching his teeth together and leaning back, his back arching slightly and his body becoming rigid as he released a cry of pain. Joan shook her head as she moved over him, pushing down on his wound and attempting to soothe him, as he relaxed under her firm hold. Joan's eyes were brimming with tears and her breathing was becoming rapid and panicked as she felt her partner work through the pain he was experiencing and relax beneath her hands. Even though Leo had been killed and the threat to her life was now removed, Sherlock still seemed to believe her to be in danger. Whether he had not witnessed or understood Leo's death or whether he was delirious she could not yet tell, but before she could consider this in any great detail the heavy approaching footsteps of Officer Hilton drew her attention to the tall figure standing before her, who stopped in his tracks upon seeing the fallen Sherlock.

"Call an ambulance!" Joan ordered, her voice fraught and filled with emotion, as she shuffled forward slightly and continued applying pressure to Sherlock's chest, his warm blood continuing to seep through her fingers. "Sherlock" she whispered, a gasp punctuating the name, causing his eyes to half-open, as he looked up at her with a calm and resolved expression. "He's gone, he's dead, it's okay" she began, swallowing hard and attempting to gain command of her voice, which was shaking and barely recognisable even to herself. "You're going to be okay" she stated with conviction, her tone acquiring a newfound strength. The crackling of the radio and the sound of a muffled voice responding to Officer Hilton mingled with the sound of the water, as Sherlock stared up at Joan and ran his eyes across her face in the intelligent and analytical manner that she recognised.

"You're going to be okay" he repeated, the words low but convinced, as he grit his teeth and suppressed a scream. The pain was unbearable, as though a flame was burning its way through his body, setting him alight from the inside. He found himself thinking of drugs, heroin, opium, anything, anything that would numb the pain. But as he shook uncontrollably due to the pain and cold, he found himself stilling once more, as his mind focused on the woman whose hands were pressed firmly to his chest, who was saving him once more, keeping him where he needed to be. Where he wanted to be. Sherlock exhaled a few deep breaths and looked up once more at Joan, who was staring at his face with a look of fear and uncertainty, her beautiful dark eyes wide and tearful. Before either of them could speak, Officer Hilton approached them both, and knelt beside them.

"I called for a bus, they'll be here in ten" he stated, removing his coat and casting it over Sherlock, covering as much of him as he was able to. He then removed his scarf and placed it beneath the consulting detective's head, which Sherlock assented to, finding that the soft material was coaxing him further and further into the realm of sleep. "I also spoke to the Captain, him and Bell are gonna be here in a few minutes" Hilton stated, his voice breaking due to the coldness. Joan nodded absently at his statements, pressing her hands firmer to her partner's chest, as the fast beating of his heart could be felt beneath her hold. She cast a look up to his face, which was a deathly shade of white, his lips pale and slightly chapped, his eyes half-open.

"There are six girls in that shipping container" Joan stated, her voice shaken but commanding. "You need to get it open, they need medical attention" she continued. Before she had finished her sentence Officer Hilton had sprung to his feet and rushed towards the container, the sound of grinding metal greeting the darkness.

"Sherlock, stay with me" she demanded, her voice regaining its previous confidence and conviction as she spoke. She knew that he was strong, resilient. He had sustained multiple injuries in the past, including a bullet wound, and he had fought valiantly through the pain. But as her hands remained firmly pressed to his chest, she felt his previously rigid and taut body weaken beneath her hands, as the light began to fade from his eyes. "Sherlock" she said imploringly, causing his eyes to widen as he continued to analyse her, his eyes widening and adopting the intelligent and analytical look of familiarity which was familiar to her. She found herself trembling under his gaze.

Sherlock was staring at Joan, focusing the entirety of his attention on her features, as though the act itself was binding them together. But it was not. He could feel himself feeling cold, dizzy and light-headed due to the blood loss, despite the fact that he was now finding himself able to manage the hot, searing pain of the bullet wound. His mind was swimming and his thoughts seemed blurred and unclear, and even in his confused and pained state he knew that he was experiencing some symptoms consistent with shock. And as he looked into her wide and tear-filled eyes he felt certain that she knew this too. They both knew the sinister and potentially fatal implications of shock, which caused her, like him, to stare at him with a strength and determination which he felt could fight the medical and logical implications of his injury, and would be almost strong enough to keep him there with her. Almost. Sherlock rose his eyes slightly and focused on the spot above her eyes, before drawing his attention to her forehead and her dark hair, which was being swept up in the air by the wind. Directly above Joan's head was the moon, which was bathing her in an ethereal white light. She was glowing. And, although he did not believe in anything as trite or unproven, at that moment in time he truly believed that Watson looked like an angel. An angel with strong yet gentle healing hands, which were keeping him in this world by her side. At this though, Sherlock found himself staring at the look of confusion and uncertainty on her face, which reminded him very much of the first time they ever met. Sherlock relaxed slightly at this memory, his eyes becoming warm and glassy. Joan noticed a change in him almost immediately, and rose her wide eyes to him, staring at him for a moment before speaking.

"Sherlock?" she asked, watching as his eyes opened wider and watched her with conviction, a calm and serene expression defining his features. For a moment, Joan felt his whole body relax beneath her hands.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked gently, his voice low and weak, but his words clear, and his breathing stable.

Joan felt as though time had stopped for a moment, as if she and her partner were stuck in a single moment where no harm would befall either of them, a moment of perfection and clarity, of safety and assurance, of love. Sherlock's words surprised her, and Joan found herself exhaling a shaking breath as she held his gaze, her slightly-parted lips playing into a small and temporary smile, before her eyes brimmed with tears once more and she swallowed hard, leaning closer to him.

"What?" she asked gently, readjusting her hands upon his chest. Her arms were beginning to feel heavy and strained, but she would not move. She would stay in that position forever if it would keep him alive.

"Do" Sherlock mumbled, his breath hitching slightly as he closed his eyes, his head reclining slightly and leaning to the side. "Do you-" before he could finish his sentence Sherlock's eyes closed and Joan felt him weaken beneath her hands, his whole body relaxing completely as his limbs fell limply to the ground.

"Sherlock" Joan stated, her voice strong but etched with panic. "No" she said, pressing down hard on his wound as she adjusted her position over him, staring at his face as she continued applying pressure to his chest. Through her hold upon him she could feel that his heart was still beating, but the once rapid and strong beats had been replaced by a dull, low and slow thudding which was only just perceptible to her trained hands. Despite the fact that her attention was completely upon her partner, she was acutely aware of movement from Officer Hilton, who was barking urgent orders into his radio, the panic in his voice echoing the voice within her that was screaming. "No" she repeated, pressing down upon him. "No no no" she repeated, as if like a mantra, as she continued applying pressure to her pale and unresponsive partner, whose warm blood continued to seep through her trembling fingers.


	23. I Now Pronounce You

Joan's hands trembled with coldness and fear as she continued to apply pressure to his wound, which was still continuing to bleed. Through her haze of tears and panic Joan felt certain that the blood loss was decreasing slightly, but the sight of her hands covered in the blood of her partner instantly shattered the small amount of comfort she was able to gain from that belief. Joan didn't know how long it had been since Sherlock had lost consciousness, her mind and her body were focused entirely on preserving his life, so almost all outside distractions did not register with her at all. It was only the heavy running footsteps and familiar voices of Gregson and Bell approaching the scene that eventually drew her attention from her paling partner.

Gregson and Bell came to a sharp halt by the side of Sherlock and Joan, the Captain staring down breathless and wide-eyed at the sight of the seriously injured detective. His eyes travelled from Sherlock to Joan, whose usually calm and composed state was completely eradicated. Her features were etched with fear and confusion, and her eyes wore the same pained and tormented look that he recognised as belonging to those who were suffering the most unimaginable emotional agony at the prospect of losing someone they cared about deeply. Gregson lowered himself to the ground and ran his eyes across his fallen associate as Bell hovered behind him uncertainly, paralysed to the spot for a moment, before picking up his radio and yelling some instructions into it.

"Miss Watson" came the husky and gently voice of Captain Gregson as he crouched beside her, his eyes widening at the paleness of Sherlock Holmes, whose blood has stained the hands of his partner, and was continuing to flow. After Joan did not respond for a few seconds Gregson repeated her name, but to little avail. Joan's eyes flickered at the sound of her name being called, but did not leave the sight of their focus. Her fingers were clasped tightly together as she pushed down strongly on Sherlock's wound, her wide eyes glistening with tears as her chest heaved. Gregson ran his eyes across Joan's face and began to wonder whether she was in shock. But as he watched her stare at her partner with a fierce determination as she strove to keep him alive, Gregson found himself knowing that her closeness to Sherlock and her medical knowledge had forged her into the ultimate protectress, his emotional and physical guardian. And he would not disturb her. Joan Watson needed to be left to work. Not just for Sherlock, but for herself.

After a few minutes of respectful silence, with Gregson watching silently over Sherlock and Joan as an increasingly agitated Bell continued to bark orders into his radio, the sound of sirens and the bright glow of lights shone through the darkness, and caused Joan to look up instantly, whilst maintaining firm pressure upon her partner's chest. The ambulance pulled up as close to the scene as possible, and two medics leapt from the vehicle, carrying a spinal board and padded bags of medical supplies. The driver parked the ambulance then grabbed his own bag, following his colleagues close behind. Joan rose her head quickly and her breath became rapid and ragged as she stared hard at them, willing them to reach the scene sooner. Within moments the medics were by her side, placing the spinal board on the ground as they moved to either side of Sherlock and began examining him as best they could given the conditions.

"Male GSW victim, forty-two" Joan began, the confidence of her tone surprising Gregson, who turned towards her as she spoke, her medical prowess clear in her tone. "Single bullet wound to the left side of his chest. He was conscious and responsive for a few minutes after the impact, but has since lost consciousness and has been unresponsive for… for about six minutes" she stated, her hands beginning to tremble once more.

"Was the shot close range?" asked the female paramedic as she dropped her bag to the floor and began rifling through it, pulling out some thick white material to stem the bleeding.

"No, from about ten feet" Joan replied, her eyes not leaving her partner's body as she spoke. The medic nodded in response, before placing the thick material slightly over Joan's hands, and waiting for her to move. She did not.

"Joan" Gregson stated, the use of her first name sounding odd to her, and causing her to blink a couple of times as she continued to tremble. "Joan, they've got this, it's okay. You can let go" he continued, his voice gentle and paternal, as he leaned closer to her, placing one hand on her lower back as he repeated her name. "Joan".

Joan released a shaking breath and moved back obediently, raising her bloodied hands from the warm body of her partner. The female medic pressed the thick wad of material to Sherlock's chest and pressed down upon it, applying firm pressure. Joan stared at the woman as she did so, her medical eyes searching for signs of scrutiny, willing herself to believe that Sherlock was in the best possible hands.

"Joan" Gregson's gentle voice repeated, as he placed one hand on her lower back and another across her back as he attempted to get her to stand. "Come on" he urged, as Joan rose obediently to her feet, her limbs feeling heavy as she continued to shake. Joan watched silently as the medic transferred Sherlock onto the spinal board, securing him tightly as they continued to apply pressure to his wound, which was beginning to bleed through the material wadding. Joan's eyes brimmed with tears as she watched the two male medics lift Sherlock's limp body and carry him towards the ambulance as the female medic continued pressing down upon his wound, running alongside her colleagues. Joan exhaled a shaking breath as Gregson supported her trembling frame, her wide eyes glistening as she stared at Sherlock's body, her gaze not wavering. After less than a moment Joan removed herself from the Captain's grasp and walked confidently forward, her steps increasing in pace before breaking into a run. Joan was beside Sherlock within moments, and exhaled sharp, panicked breaths as she watched her partner being lifted into the ambulance. Once he was secured inside one medic ran to the driver's seat and the other remained with Sherlock in the back. The female medic stood at the back of the ambulance and glanced down at Joan, as if expecting her to speak.

"I was a surgeon, I can help" Joan said resolutely, her breath shaking as she spoke. The female medic looked at her with an uncertain gaze, before Joan took a step forward and looked directly into the younger woman's eyes. "He's my partner and I'm not leaving him" she declared. The woman blinked, nodded once and moved aside. Joan gripped the side of the ambulance and pulled herself inside, standing on the other side of Sherlock and watching as the female medic read out his vitals. During the fifteen minute journey, Joan watched over her partner, who remained unconscious and unresponsive for the duration. His bleeding was abating, but his heart rate and pulse were dangerously low. Joan's ministrations on her partner were welcomed by the ambulance crew, who quickly became aware of her medical knowledge and skill. Joan worked tirelessly upon her partner, ensuring her remained stable until the vehicle pulled up in the ambulance bay and the back doors swung open, revealing a tall male doctor in a white coat. The female paramedic leapt from the vehicle and explained the situation to the doctor, whose initial confusion at Joan's presence and clear medical intervention abated upon understanding the nature of the incident. Joan watched as the other two medics eased her partner out of the ambulance and lowered him onto a crash trolley. She followed the trolley and medical staff down the labyrinth of corridors until they reached the ER.

"It's alright, ma'am" began the older doctor placatingly, raising one hand as he spoke to Joan, whose face was tear-stained and hands were stained with her partner's blood. "We'll do all we can." With that the doctor rushed through the doors, which swung shut behind him. Joan stood motionless for a few moments, the adrenaline which had been coursing through her veins for the past half an hour running perilously low, and causing her to sway slightly on the spot. A nurse in close proximity to her placed one hand on the back of her shoulder and another on her hip, guiding her to a seat against a nearby wall. Joan moved silently and obediently towards the seat, easing herself into it as she felt her body tremble once more. The kindly nurse was muttering some words of kindness and assurance to her, but she was paying very little attention. She felt cold, numb, shocked, confused. And as the memory of seeing her partner lying in agony upon the ground came back to her, so did her guilt, which struck her with an almost physical force which took her breath away. Joan exhaled a shaking breath and instantly burst into tears, her whole body trembling as she leaned forward, clasping one dry-blooded hand across her mouth and placing the other on her forehead. She felt the nurse's hand travel soothingly across her back in a series of motions which reminded her of Sherlock's gentle touches and caresses. As Joan began to recover herself she noticed the unmistakable metallic taste of blood, and leaned back as she drew her hands from her face, and found herself staring at her bloodied hands.

"Let's get you to the bathroom, honey" the kindly nurse began, applying gentle pressure to Joan's side. "Can you stand?" Joan nodded absently, trembling as she stood, following the nurse mechanically to the bathroom, which was at the other end of the corridor. As they got to the entrance Joan turned back to the nurse, muttered a word of thanks and entered alone. Joan walked calmly over to the sink, placing her hands beneath the hot water from the running taps, and rubbing soap over her hands as she attempted to rid herself of the blood. The sound of the running water reminded Joan of the port, and the gentle water which had provided a backdrop to their rescue mission. As the sounds conjured up memories of Sherlock's shooting Joan closed her eyes tightly and fought back the tears once more, as the water running down the plughole turned a pale crimson.

After a few minutes Joan's hands were clean, but she used the warm soapy water to wash away the blood that she had unwittingly transferred to her mouth and face, before splashing cold water over herself and staring hard at her own reflection as she attempted to calm herself. After a few minutes of silence Joan found herself experiencing an eerie feeling of calmness. As she looked once more at her reflection, she noticed the paleness of her skin and the darkness of her reddened eyes, which had a hollow and traumatised appearance in them which she scarcely recognised. Joan's thoughts were interrupted by a gentle rapping at the door. She turned towards it, freezing at the sound, as the door slowly opened, and the face of the kindly nurse appeared.

"Are you alright?" she asked sweetly. Joan nodded slowly in response, grabbing some green paper towels and drying her hands before leaving the bathroom. The nurse held the door open for her and stepped back slightly, as if fearing getting too close to her.

"How is he?" Joan asked, her voice regaining its regular tone as she turned towards the nurse, whose identity badge revealed her name to be 'Mindy'.

"I don't know, hunny. He only just got into the OR, they're still workin' on him" she replied gently. Joan nodded in response and followed the nurse back to the single row of plastic seats, easing herself down gently, and turning her head expectantly towards the familiar set double doors. Mindy sat beside her, turning her body slightly towards her and waiting for a few moments to see if the younger woman would speak. After she didn't, Mindy addressed her. "Can I get you something? Some hot tea?" she asked gently, knowing that some sweet tea would probably bring back some colour to the woman's pale face.

"Sure" Joan responded absently, not really paying much attention to the question. Once it registered, she turned slightly on the spot and face the nurse. "Thank you" she responded, her dark eyes meeting Mindy's, before she turned once more back to the doors. Mindy nodded in understanding, standing up and heading for the staff room. She needed the proper stuff.

Joan leaned against the slightly cracked plastic blue chair, pressed the side of her head against the white tiled wall and stared directly ahead of her. She wrapped her arms around her chest and inhaled a few deep, soothing breaths, her eyes not leaving the windows in the doors. Whilst she had been working on Sherlock, attempting to keep him stable until he was able to get to a hospital, she had been running on pure adrenaline, and the natural and instinctive desire to preserve and protect his life. But now that such care was taken from her hands, she felt powerless and afraid, locked in a dark room with no light. But as if that were not enough, she also found herself confronted with the overwhelming guilt associated with her injury, and the knowledge that he took a bullet for her. Joan closed her eyes tightly at this thought and her arms wrapped across her chest more firmly as she sought to regain her composure. Despite having witnessed his injuries, tended to them herself, she found herself unable to believe it. Everything had happened so quickly, he'd come out of nowhere. As she had stood before Leo, staring at the gun he had poised and aimed at her, she found herself almost accepting the fact that she was about to be shot. She remembered her previously racing heart had slowed completely and her body had tensed in apprehension of what she felt would be the inevitable contact of the bullet. But instead of being shot by the man who had attacked and almost killed her, she was pushed to the ground by the man who had saved her in so many ways before. The thought that he may die because of her was too much to bear.

"Joan, hey" came the voice of Detective Bell, whose coat swept behind him as he walked quickly down the corridor towards her. Joan found herself drawn from her thoughts by his voice, and she turned towards him as he cautiously eased himself into the seat beside her, and tilted his body so that he was facing her directly. Bell looked into Joan's eyes, which appeared tired and red from tears.

"Hey" she replied, her voice so low and delicate it was almost a whisper. She and Bell sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, as he looked upon her with a sense of nervous apprehension. "How are the girls?" she asked carefully, her eyes alight with sincere concern as she turned back towards him.

"The Captain's with them now. The six in the container were in pretty bad shape. We sent buses to the port to bring them here" he began, watching as Joan took in his words and nodded in response. "The other eight girls were found on the ship. They're also in a bad way, they're being brought here too." Joan nodded in response, crossing her arms across her chest once more and leaning back in her seat so that she was facing forwards. She found looking at those formidable doors behind her was causing her heart to race and her stomach to turn. She closed her eyes and attempted to steady her breathing, in a desperate attempt to quell the feelings of sickness and dread which were resonating throughout her body.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Bell asked cautiously. He noticed how Joan stiffened slightly at his words, before leaning back into her seat and turning towards him. For a moment he regretted having asked her, but before he could apologise she began to speak.

"I heard something" she said simply, pausing for a few seconds as she considered how alien her own voice sounded to her. "I went to check it out, and the camera picked up five or six people in one of the containers" she continued, swallowing as she leaned forward in her seat. "I was trying to open the container when Leo came towards me" she stated, remembering the sound of his cruel voice taunting her in the darkness. "We talked, and he pulled a gun from behind his back" she said, her eyes wide and glassy as she spoke. Bell remained still and quiet, listening attentively to Joan as she explained the events leading up to Sherlock's shooting. "I thought he was going to shoot me" she said simply. "He was going to, he was about to shoot me, when-" she began, breaking off and exhaling shakily. Bell shifted in his seat slightly, and was about to place a hand comfortingly on her back, when she leaned back having recovered herself. "He came out of nowhere" she stated, her eyes narrowing in confusion as she recollected the events. She remembered hearing crunching gravel, but nothing else, no other signs that he was nearby. "He pushed me to the ground just as Leo fired" Joan stated, almost choking out the words. Bell nodded in understanding, and edged slightly closer to Joan.

"It's gonna be okay" he stated confidently, but his statement provided Joan with no reassurance whatsoever.

"No" she replied simply, remembering the pale look on her partner's face as he bled profusely beneath her hands. "It's not".

Bell placed his hand on her shoulder for a moment, and the warmth of his touch calmed her slightly. Joan closed her eyes and swallowed, wrapping her arms around herself once more, as she continued to stare blankly at the wall before her. Bell knew that Joan would be feeling guilt-ridden by what had just happened. And although it was not her fault, she was inconsolable. No reassuring words or gestures would assist her. The only thing that would help her at all would be if someone came through those tall, imposing doors and assured her that Sherlock Holmes was going to be okay. But based on the conversation he had with the ambulance crew before heading over to Joan, he knew that that was far from a certainty.

Joan and Bell sat beside each other for three hours as the doctors worked on Sherlock. The kindly nurse returned with Joan's tea, which grew cold and untouched on the ground beside her. A few members of staff approached them and offered them drinks or something to eat, eve fresh clothes for Joan, whose black shirt shone with blood which she had not noticed before. She politely rejected all of these offers. The kindly nurse returned shortly after the second hour and offered them the use of the relative's room, which Joan knew to be three corridors away, so she rejected this too. She wanted to be as close to Sherlock as possible, she had to be. Bell seemed to understand this, and thanked the nurse kindly on both of their behalf. Even Captain Gregson came up two or three times, to check on both Sherlock and Joan, and receiving little news to reassure him on either of them. After the third hour passed with no news or updates, and not even a single person coming through the double doors, Bell turned towards Joan and posed a question which he had been thinking about for several hours.

"After you rode with Holmes in the ambulance I went over to Officer Hilton to see what he knew" Bell began, the sound of his voice drawing Joan's attention towards him. "He told me he didn't see anything. He just heard the gunshot and ran straight towards where he thought it came from" he stated, his voice low and gentle. Joan nodded in response. "He said that as you were helping Holmes, before he became unconscious, he said something to you" he continued, watching as Joan's eyes glistened slightly. She did not appear upset by the question, but seemed to be caught up in a calm and reflective silence. "What did he say?" Bell asked, when he felt certain he had not intruded.

"It was a question" she stated simply, her eyes adopting a melancholy and glassy expression.

Joan considered the question for a few moments, remembering perfectly the words of her partner. _Do you believe in love at first sight?_ He had asked, his words echoing the very first ones he had spoken to her. The memory of his words caused her to remember the shirtless and tattooed torso of an arrogant man she barely knew, who felt put out by her presence in his life and annoyed at what he probably felt to be an unnecessary intrusion. This memory was quickly overtaken by one of the kind, compassionate and changed man who stepped between her and a speeding bullet less than four hours before. Joan's eyes remained dark and sombre as she recalled the words on both occasions, and the memories of the tall figure of her partner and his bleeding and weakened body on the ground mingled and caused her chest to tighten. Joan blinked away the memories and continued staring before her, parting her lips slightly as she prepared herself to speak.

"He said-"

Joan was cut off by the familiar but unexpected sound of the double doors opening wide. Joan turned instantly and saw the familiar figure of the doctor she first saw in the ambulance bay upon their arrival at the hospital. She and Bell rose from their seats simultaneously as the doctor looked from one to the other, letting go of the door he was holding open as he took a step towards Joan.


End file.
